Category Archives: Northwest Arkansas

Biographical, Family, Jimmy, Northwest Arkansas

Forgotten Days in Tontitown

08/17/2019 X Teri Leave a comment

This picture is of my brother, me, mom, and dad. I’ve written before how ambivalent I am about this picture. On the one hand, I’m glad that the picture exists. On the other, it is horribly misleading because it might convince bystanders that we were a happy family.

Before highway 412 modernized us, we intimately knew highway 68. Before its expansion and encroachment all along the yards lining it, it was a typical narrow road passing through NWA. It was a vital artery connecting the small towns that dominated our corner of the state. It’s “Old 68” now, truncated and lost to failed bridges that isolate it from its replacement. I once knew parts of the old 68 with precision. There were many times I would ride back to our home with my drunken dad, praying to the silent god who presumably watched over idiots like him. On the other hand, I knew such hopes were truly childish because Dad had killed a cousin of mine in a DWI accident. This knowledge invalidated the whispers of hope I had. Sometimes I’d pray for a horrible crash to engulf us and put an end to the uncertainty; other times I’d wish to just get home in one piece.

The land over on the far side of Tontitown was simply beautiful. I find myself forgetting this at times. Rolling hills, thick trees, creeks crisscrossing where the land permitted, and open expanses of fields filled the area. For the most part, property owners weren’t aware of kids traversing their land. As long as we respected their property, those that were aware simply chose to ignore us as we did what kids do best. There were times where we’d set off walking and have no idea where we were heading. Chiggers, mosquitoes, and snakes often accompanied us. When you’re young, you assume that such things are a required tariff in order to enjoy life.

Because my family moved more often than a pack of unwanted nomads, I lived in Tontitown more than once in my youth. The first long stretch followed our trailer in City View Trailer Park in Springdale burning down, rendering both at least 100,000 cockroaches and us homeless. We moved to the western fringe of Tontitown, near the bend where the new 412 first veers away from the original 68. When 68 was rerouted and renamed 412, it cut across Road 852. Technically, it wasn’t and isn’t Tontitown – but everyone considered it to be so. It was not too far from the infamous and now-defunct Blue Hole swimming spot, home of the coldest water imaginable. When I was young, I didn’t even realize that Blue Hole Road was a real name.

We moved to Washington County Road 852 to stay with Leta, the widow of a paternal cousin. Dad had a penchant for sleeping with a variety of people, and choosing from the woodpile didn’t deter him. It took me several years to pinpoint precisely how Leta fit in the family tree. Her husband, my dad’s distant cousin, had died a few years prior. Leta had an interesting life, and despite all the other surrounding confusion, I now know that I would be fascinated if I could go back in time and have an adult conversation with her. She wasn’t a warm person; on the other hand, I didn’t understand how much of an interruption we might have been to her life.

I’ve written before about the place being the perfect alignment of isolation, anger, and addiction. Highway 68 ran across the north, leaving the land below it pristine and only accessible through a complex series of dirt roads. I was in 7th grade, and because of the fire, I had lost everything. The house was small, and even the so-called bedrooms were nothing more than imaginary boundaries inside the old house. We all shared one bathroom and a clawfoot bathtub. Ancient box fans provided most of the airflow into the house. The outside of the house was covered in tan brick-theme tar paper, similar to what was commonly found in the area where I was born. While we lived at Leta’s, Dad spent time filling the inside of the house with dark paneling. We shared one console television in the living, very close to the front door, connected to an old tv antenna outside.

My parents often fought, as they were prone to do regardless of the impermanence of their residence. My dad had several affairs, including the notorious relationship with Leta who owned the house. The adults around me drank more per capita than any household in Tontitown. The alcohol-fueled many days and nights of violence and terror. It also sometimes granted us too much freedom. At times, I forget that because Leta worked at the Venetian Inn at night and Mom worked split shifts and unusual hours at Southwestern Bell, our presence at the house overlapped in a crazy Venn diagram.

As much as I vilify the players in the drama in that period of my life, I am the first to admit that there were some spectacular adventures. The geography allowed for us to trek miles in several directions, to explode a ton of fireworks with a total disregard for human safety, fire a variety of pistols, rifles, and shotguns, and to escape the lunacy the adults brought to the table. I could go outside and climb on top of the barn past the gated fence, or if I was really ambitious, crawl up onto the roof of the house or clamber up one of the ten million trees. The house also had a simple covered front porch, bordered on one side by a massive pile of firewood. We dreaded the surprise announcements that we were going to have to help our Dad cut firewood. I have an entire book of stories about some of those mornings. I could sneak away across the barbed wire and read, as long as I could suffer the bugs and snakes inhabiting the area. It was at Leta’s that I found her copy of “Your Erroneous Zones” by self-help guru Wayne Dyer. It was a revelation and seemed to describe an attitude and life that seemed impossible. I could take my french horn down into a dense valley and sound like I was summoning the Valkyries. It was possible to walk and fill oneself with many grapes picked off the vines or find patches of blackberries thick with both briars and berries.

At night, the area seemed to revert to a time centuries ago. Dark was genuinely dark, and animals of all kinds inhabited every nook and cranny of the fields and forests. There was a couple of times that my Dad forced us to walk across the darkened fields and leave proof of our visits inside an abandoned house, once part of a now-forgotten community. My cousin Jimmy was unnaturally afraid of the dark and everything it might contain. We were more afraid of my Dad, though. One of those forced walks in the dark is now one of my most cherished memories. The house stands epically in my memory and its silhouette is still etched in my mind and often used as a comparison to measure foreboding. Had my parents been more normal, it could have been a paradise. My appreciation for the land of that area has only grown as I’ve aged. The land owes me no apology for the people who stained its beauty.

As much as I knew about the area, I knew much less than my brother who had more friends and didn’t hesitate to go out and work in the grapevines or tomato farms. When the trailer burned, it burned my connections to the friends I had at City View. Sometimes, though, old friends, especially my brother’s friends, would visit and the shenanigans would commence. There’s a reason we universally look back and hold dear those memories of such adventures. They encapsulate so much of the joy of being a boy and having the freedom to experience small pieces of the world.

We often had mega-barbeques, fish fries, and feasts. They were raucous affairs, of course, and many ended with fisticuffs, shouts, and blood-soaked shirts. On one occasion, the party ended because my dad threw an entire box of ammunition in the wood fireplace in the living room. I took advantage of those times by eating barrels of salad soaked in Viva Italian dressing, or bag after endless bag of Venetian Inn salad and rolls. Leta worked at the Venetian Inn and brought home a treasure of food from there each day she worked. I, of course, loved pasta. After eating several miles of it, though, I usually opted for endless salads. We would walk the long dirt road home, rain or shine, from the nearest school bus stop up near Mitchell’s service station. (Those walks home after school would dissuade anyone from choosing a large band instrument to learn.) I’d often eat a king’s meal of rolls, salad and sometimes 2 or more chicken breasts. I could make a pot of coffee and drink it all. I sampled a variety of wines, too. Leta didn’t mind. She knew that we were going to be unable to overcome our curiosity. Don’t be too concerned about the bit of wine. I had access to unlimited alcohol and a few drugs, which didn’t interest me.

I’m only reminiscing because one day not too long ago, someone online answered a comment about that area and Brush Creek, which lies not too far away. Another commenter mentioned the massage parlors in the area. It made me laugh, reading the comments of those who claimed they were all fables and made-up urban legends. Where men walk, you can be assured that vice follows.

For those who don’t know, Tontitown once harbored several houses of ill repute, stills for moonshine, and a bit of weed for those wishing to find them. It’s topography made it ideal for concealment while also not being so far out of the way that it was prohibitive to find it. The hills and hollers made intrusion unlikely. Not too far from where I lived out on the dirt road, one of the residents had a decent plot for marijuana growing, with a water well off the road, powered by an illegal electric connection that was off the grid. He resembled the actor Brett Gelman if he never shaved. He also looked exactly like Leta’s son, who was the personification of an ex-Vietnam hippie. Leta’s son struck me as crazy, but he was always kind to me and talked to me like an adult. I remember once when we drove to Timbuktu to visit him, and he was in the front yard, totally naked, taking a shower under a hand-made system of water hoses. It was hilarious.

Even though the accusation will make some people defensive, many of these unsavory places were known to law enforcement. I’m not alleging conspiracy, of course. People do crazy things often enough with the necessity of making outrageous claims. Someone I know very well loves telling the story of her dad, who was a Springdale policeman at the time, giving protection to someone involved. My dad was known to payoff DWIs under the table, not to mention bribing people to look the other way. It was common. I’m not telling the story to paint someone negatively; it was just the way many things were done. Monroe County, the place where I was born, was a significant conduit for all manner of vice, too. Everyone knew it. Dad had a temperament and way of finding the most clever places to get into trouble. “Friends in low places” would describe his circle. Regardless, though involved in the shady businesses never interfered in other people’s business and expected reciprocity in return. Minding your own business granted every mutual safety.

The massage parlor sat near 68, hidden in plain sight in a nondescript tan trailer. There were, of course, no signs or indications that nefarious goings-on could be experienced within. I used to amuse myself by imagining that some industrious and brazen entrepreneur would put up a huge flashing neon sign indicating “Sex Shop” near the place. Google Streetview hasn’t visited the road in over ten years. I know that many people got lost looking for the massage parlor because I remember Leta and others telling stories about the faraway neighbors getting late-night knocks on their doors, demanding to be let in.

Because Dad would drink to excess, he would mouth off, often without realizing he was spilling the beans. One evening, he had driven by the trailer with his bottle of Evan Williams between his knees. “That place will make a man out of you,” he said, as he punched me on the side of the head. I don’t remember why I was in the cab of the truck with him. I would choose the bed of the pickup even during a lava storm to stay away from Dad when his mood could shift.

Sometime after, Dad had pulled in to the small driveway next to the trailer. I was surprised because I was in the back of the truck. Dad’s dog Duke and I remained in the back of the pickup. A little bit later, Dad came out and proudly drank some of his whiskey and coke and drove home. I overheard him talking about the place to more than a couple of people.

It took me a bit to connect the dots. There was a cookout at Leta’s one Sunday, and someone said something about the convenience of having a massage parlor up the road. Mom threw her cigarette at the person joking about it and then hurled her half-finished beer into dad’s face. She shouted her favorite “MoFo” curse repeatedly as she left. (Many get-togethers ended that way.) Dad didn’t rush after her as everyone expected. He drank until the sun descended into the valley before reminding Mom of how dangerous he was. I don’t remember whether I cowered out of sight or managed to escape outside and down the road or through the surrounding landscape.

There were times when Mom would drink and then decide to go hunt for my Dad. She’d drive by the Red Door and all the other usual places that might contain him. I think after finding out about Dad’s presence at the massage parlor that she always took a moment to look over the area around it in hopes of seeing his truck. I’m not sure how many times I was forced to prowl with Mom. I do know that she had no business driving most of the time.

Or being married, now that I think about it.

I’m not sure how long this particular massage parlor stayed in business. (Long enough to increase Dad’s chances of getting his head caved in, though.)

If you missed it in a previous post, we moved after Mom discovered that Dad and Leta had been having an affair for a long time. I found them together one night, which is why I can state with such certainty this isn’t a figment of my mom’s fabled anger and imagination. Weirdly enough, we moved to a place very close to where I now live, to a tiny trailer on the road that would one day become part of the Don Tyson Parkway. That place was indeed a crucible of violence. Mom knew that Dad was unfaithful. Proof of it, though, inevitably started a predetermined sequence of weekend tirades.

Now that I know so much more about Dad’s inability to behave like a normal husband, it would be interesting to know whether Mom would kill my Dad after learning the new information. The breadth of my Dad’s infidelity goes much deeper and further than I suspected – and that’s quite a feat.

I have several stories that I’ve never told. Some of my reluctance arises from the involvement of other people who still walk the earth. While it is my right to share these stories, I’ve not done so because some of the unflattering biographies aren’t entirely in my control.

I don’t have a great record of our time out there on the western edge of Tontitown. I’ve mentioned before that my family simply didn’t own a camera. We relied on others to document our lives. There are pictures of our time there, but very few.
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P.S. I wrote this story without stressing the storyline. I didn’t know how to create a central theme, so I didn’t. The story and words stand ‘as is;’ take from it that which you will.

The picture is one I took in 2006 after the house in Tontitown burned. I haven’t lived there for almost 40 years. It’s an unimaginable and detached amount of time. The inset picture is of me from around the time I lived in the house.

This picture is of Uncle Beb and my cousin Jimmy doing the Hambone dance. This picture shows the corner of the house that’s also in the picture of the house after it burned. You can see the wilderness near the road in the background.

This picture captures a common activity: everyone armed and shooting. My Uncle Bed, Uncle Buck, dad, and my cousin Jimmy. In the right circumstances, these gatherings were joyous.

The picture in the first comment is a picture one of my dad. He’s three sheets to the wind. He’d just rolled his beloved truck down into one of the deep hollers near our house late at night. He was oblivious that night. The aftermath and days after were violently unpleasant.

Government, Northwest Arkansas, Opinion, Politics, Springdale

A Few Words About Springdale

08/07/2019 X Teri Leave a comment

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Anyone who knows me or has read my comments about Springdale will tell you that I’ve been overwhelmingly positive about the changes in the city. The most significant exception, albeit half-jokingly, is my opinion of the marketing and design of the city’s logo, which is as inspiring as a crossword puzzle in German. Any improvements which reduce the number of cowboy hats being worn at government meetings can only be classified as miraculous and welcome. (In all seriousness, I like cowboy hats, but a couple of previous political players who donned them soured my regard for them in the public forum.)

Economics drove many of the changes. There’s been a lot of resistance from many, especially from the older citizens and less progressive people living in the city. Trails, polylingualism, and diversity are things which weren’t embraced in Springdale’s past. Springdale’s roots are parochial and restrictive. By no means am I falsely claiming that these tendencies were homogenous or shared by everyone; they were, however, powerful influencers which resisted change. This tendency is as much Southern as it is a reflection of Springdale.

By almost all metrics, Springdale is a better city than it was in the past.

Springdale’s growth is directly intertwined with its embrace of modern amenities and dedication toward economic pragmatism.

Behind the scenes, though, we have a few forces which tend to exert a strange warping of the general direction of change. Whether it’s a corporation with an unusually loud voice in the Chamber of Commerce or a church with a disproportionate voice in politics and government, Springdale is not governed as transparently as one might expect. It is the quasi-government that carries a portion of the power in Springdale.

Because of the weird confluence of cultures, Springdale is undergoing an uneven metamorphosis. By any measure, its population is well over one-third Latino. Even though it’s only the fourth largest city in Arkansas, its school enrollment is the largest. About 4 in 10 residents speak a non-English language, and about 8 in 10 are citizens. (The citizenship rate is lower in Springdale than surrounding large cities and Washington County.) 1 in 4 residents was born outside the United States. (Compared to 1 in 9 in Benton County.) As the economy strengthens, the stability of the area allows residents to stay and put down roots. Most of them will not leave, statistically speaking. Despite these facts, the poverty rate is about 18%. Springdale’s homeownership rate is much lower than the national rate of about 64% – and also lower than our neighbors above us.

Having said that, Springdale is suffering from a problem that has blossomed in other places. As demographics shift, those left in the unbalanced position often deviate from their dedicated focus and adopt a less progressive attitude, both in their approach to economics and policy. Pragmatic governance gives rise to politics and issues.

I distrust all politicians who choose ideology over pragmatism, even those who agree with me on issues.

That Springdale is going to undergo a drastic shift in diversity and population is undeniable. Whether those tasked with peering into the future will honor this inevitability is the central question. Springdale will be a majority of non-whites, probably much more quickly than people realize. Springdale will be a crucible of language, culture, and diversity. Anything which fails to recognize this fact is a disservice to the future of the city. Like all cities growing in population, it is not a safe bet to assume that the community will not deviate in matters of religion or non-religion, language, and politics. It is a fool’s errand to engage in behavior which ignores the wave of changes that are coming.

The great thing about city government is that those involved in it traditionally can dedicate themselves to infrastructure and financial planning. There’s usually no room for demagoguery. When those tasked with local governance deviate into political ideology, things often go awry.

The most recent symptom of this loss of pragmatism is the effort of some to pass a non-binding resolution declaring that Springdale is a pro-life city. Even though the decision is entirely devoid of legal meaning, those in favor of the proclamation would rather be able to literally circumvent established law were they able to do so. It is disingenuous of them to claim it will not affect reproductive options. Obviously, this can’t be the case. If the resolution is meaningless, why pass it? Some of the City Council and within the government want to make abortion illegal. Simply say so, without the color of the city government’s authority behind it.

If it is any comfort, I personally cannot imagine that the right to abortion will stand as the law of the land for very much longer. My personal solution for this is to require every male to have a vasectomy by maturation. (They can be reversed.) It’s about time we put the burden of planning on the male half of the population, anyway. Am I kidding or not about the last half of this paragraph?

My argument isn’t in regard to Planned Parenthood, which indeed is a polarizing organization. My point is that the city should tread cautiously in its approach to using city time to make political comments that overreach the governing function of a local city government. We have entirely too much of that nonsense at the state and federal level. As for the latest development and the non-binding resolution, many of you might recall that I predicted that this sort of thing would occur as the composition of the city government changed.

Can they do so? Of course! We can all agree that politicians seem to be unable to stop using their status as elected public servants to wag their fingers and pontificate. It’s one of the things we dislike the most. We choose them to represent us as employees, and they repay us by lecturing us. I’ll admit we collectively behave stupidly, which partially explains the tendency.

Doing so, however, draws contentious scrutiny to the City of Springdale. The arguments in favor of economics simply get abbreviated and silenced by the weight of the stigma of the underlying fight. Businesses and people coming to the area have too many other legitimate choices regarding infrastructure, employment, and residence, especially when considering our neighbors to the north. It’s easier to sidestep the issue by going north. Employers behave in this pragmatic manner all the time. It’s safer to avoid a job applicant with potentially unwelcome baggage. This tendency in part explains why Harrison, which should be a large, thriving city, stills remains behind the curve.

If the City of Springdale cannot prohibit reproductive services inside city limits, those with profound objections to their availability should devote themselves to providing better alternatives. Many people do – and that is an honorable course of action if you honestly disagree with the status quo. I’m not mocking those with regard for human life. It’s an easy trap to fall into.

If the City of Springdale wishes to draw attention to itself by using non-binding resolutions, I would recommend that they choose ones which do not contain the fuse for a public relations fight. We have better people than this. I know that those in favor of this particular non-binding resolution want to send a message. And they probably will. But the converse to the message is generally disfavorable. It’s enough of a risk to dissuade most cautious people from making it.

On another note, it is unwise to appeal to the majority on issues, whatever those issues may be.

I think I’ve made a case to remind anyone who has forgotten that the majority is going to be someone else fairly soon. Giving predominant voice to the majority simply because you can, also provides the opposition with the right to do the same to you when the time comes.

We can do better.

We are better.

We don’t need a resolution to tell us.

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P.S. The tenor and tone of any possible replies are indicators of the depth of your regard for civil discourse. Be nice, be concise, and as in life, don’t reduce the room by your presence. Civil servants are supposed to face criticism openly.

Arkansas, Christmas, Holiday, Northwest Arkansas, Opinion, Racism and Prejudice, Springdale, Xmas

A Christmas Parade With a Shadow

11/25/2018 X Teri Leave a comment

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We lined Emma Street last night, each of us impatiently waiting for the bright succession of floats, lights, and hurled candy to pass us by. It was a beautiful and unseasonably warm late November night. Northwest Arkansas’ largest lit Christmas tree came alive slightly before 6 as those in the parade made their way from the rodeo grounds down the revitalized path to downtown. The people involved in the downtown festivities did an incredible job of organizing the various activities. The Shiloh Square was a diverse mass of commerce, shouting, and smiling. With so many children present, it was no surprise to hear the word “No!” at least one million times.

Earlier yesterday, I heard the rumblings of resentment on social media, as people whispered against the Sons of The Confederacy participating in the parade. I limited my commentary to, “I hope people don’t do anything stupid. Or stupider.” As we all know, it’s become increasingly difficult to be civil at times. Given my background, I know how easy it is to make a situation worse, even if we are ‘right.’ No fire burns as brightly as one fueled by righteousness – and none singes with such wild abandon. In the end, it’s hard for us to believe that much of our complaining is no more than the proverbial ‘fart in a thunderstorm.’ I’m not judging the motivations of those objecting, either, because if we look at the actions of each person instead of as part of a collective, we can better determine the impact of something on our lives. Much of our issues stem from piling people into neat baskets. Even though I also know that screaming, shouting, or typing in all caps not only does not advance my argument but weakens it, like so many others, there are times when my brain short-circuits and leaves me incapable of persuasive disagreement.

If the Sons of the Confederacy is a relic, then so too are our family members who subscribe to supremacy and the arguments of heritage. It is often tone deafness amplified to a shout; out of place, out of time. Many are proud to be Southern and I find myself conflicted at times attempting the impossible task of distinguishing between prejudice and pride in others. In my case, I don’t feel Southern or even Arkansan. So much of our life is tribalism. We identify with the people, places, customs, collegiate sports teams, and religions of our geography. Allegiance to and defense of things which are unchosen lead us to strange destinations. I don’t subscribe to any of their memberships.

As someone who has done a lot of genealogy, I’ve discovered that many of us share a mass of common ancestors. One characteristic of those who preceded us is that they did a lot of vile, ignorant things, just as many of us do. I vainly try to read the hearts of those I know to circumspectly decide whether they glorify heritage or hate. I’m not impartial. Even as I hate to find myself judged, I judge others.

If I find myself unable to distinguish motive, I look to my own past and to my own father. His demons fueled a fury that left a wide path of pain behind him. If I cannot separate his humanity from his actions, I’m left with nothing except the certainty of destruction. It’s impossible to elevate him or honor him in the face of his actions. Other people in my situation find a way to love the person in their lives, my father’s equivalent. Some are able to do the same with our national disgrace of slavery and the institutions which furthered them. I don’t know how some people compartmentalize their adoration for Southern heritage without being derailed by what fueled it. I do know, however, that I am foolish if I paint all such people as having hate in their hearts. Just as they can embrace violent fathers or remain in churches which institutionalize abuse, they also embrace an imagined way of life without associating themselves with the violence of slavery. It perplexes me.

Having said that, I squint at public monuments which seemingly glorify our collective lesser nature and past. I distrust by default those who wave the Confederate flag. I wonder what motivates a group of people to build a float that will probably upset the very people who want to be entertained. Even as I do this, I know that I’m making the mistake of generalization when I judge everyone who disagrees. My privilege as a white male does not benefit me when I attempt to add my opinion to the pile. As such, I leave the heavy lifting to those who feel emboldened enough to protest or resist their presence. In short, I’m lazy. Especially of late, it is inevitable that most things will morph into shouting. A world in which the Confederacy is important is not my world. But neither is a world which mobilizes to shout back at those who find value in it. For those who truly feel the need to protest, my heart is with you. I hope you resist the visceral need to shout down those whose arguments are shaded with subtlety. People will say dumb things such as, “No one was offended,” as if they know your heart.

As we leaned against one of the restored buildings along Emma, I told my wife that a controversy was brewing and that I dreaded the inevitable brouhaha on social media. I knew that the next day would bring teeth gnashing and recrimination. I told her I was surprised that such a float would be included in the parade, but that it wasn’t a last-minute decision and that someone had hopefully taken a moment to consider the implications of its inclusion.

As the floats passed, the only misbehavior I noticed was that of several young misfits who were diligently and insistently attempting to make their mothers lose their minds. That a mother might actually smack a child was the most likely genesis of violence. The best float was the one celebrating the movie “Christmas Vacation.” Eddie drove by in a decrepit RV, tailpipe dragging on the pavement and ahead of him, a tree-laden (roots and all) station wagon adorned with a thousand lights.

As the parade ended, my wife and I cut through Spring Street, then on Johnson. The floats had looped around on Johnson after traversing Emma. I was carefully making my way along the edge of the road, watching the uneven ground carefully. “Merry Christmas” enthusiastically yelled a young blond-haired girl. I looked up as I bellowed, “You too!” The float behind her held two of the men dressed as Civil War soldiers. I waved and said, “Have a good night!” They both waved and said, “You too!” Both floats were part of the Sons of the Confederacy. I didn’t wave to endorse any hateful ideology. I waved because those were people and any meanness on my part would serve no purpose other than to solidify the presence of more discord. Time will hopefully do its job and convince people that such affiliation equally creates discord. I waved and greeted the other float participants, too, as each passed me. Especially Cousin Eddie in his RV.

The picture in this post is of one last night. I chose it because while it captures the beautiful lights carefully placed along Emma, it also captures an interloper passing through the frame. A shadow, one not participating, yet present. Whoever that shadowy person might have been, he or she represents the stain of controversy in an otherwise beautiful Christmas parade. Even as we enjoyed the goofy pleasures of a community parade, I knew the shadow would linger in the hearts of many. Many people worked hard for the night we all shared. It’s important that we take the shadow in its proper perspective yet also be grateful that the Springdale we now share is infinitely better than it once was. I truly believe that.

When I write, I lay out my deficiencies in concrete, leaving people to bring their own misconceptions and lives to the words I write. Unlike many, I have ideas which do not reside on permanent foundations; they shift as my understanding changes. In short, I am often wrong. Interacting with people changes me, especially those who temper their knowledge through a filter which demands that we often give one another a huge benefit of the doubt – and to be cautious when we attempt to read the hearts and minds of those around us.

I left with much to think about.

I left hoping that thinking itself would prevail over shouting in the next few days.

Behind me, the enormous lit Christmas tree filled our Springdale downtown with colorful lights. If the Spirit of Christmas is something worth aspiring to, I hope those lights somehow made their way into the hearts of those who share our community, no matter what their hearts might already contain.
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Humor, Northwest Arkansas, Razorback Greenway, Springdale, Uncategorized, Washington County, Arkansas

Downtown Dummies – An Art Installation Sponsored by Prank Sinatra

07/30/2018 X Teri Leave a comment

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I keep lists of jokes, ideas, and amusing things to amuse my amusing self. Last year while I was walking before sunrise in downtown Springdale, I burst out laughing with one of them.

I’ve been secretly fantasizing about an idiotic prank for quite a while. I’ve browsed on eBay, Amazon, and retail clearance websites trying to get a reasonable cost to purchase several dozen mannequins. The best cost I could devise was about $750. Three weeks ago, I could have purchased an entire lot, clothing included, from a defunct retailer.

After purchasing all the mannequins and keeping them in a self-storage unit, I’d rent a U-Haul. Early in the morning, I would drive around downtown Springdale and strategically place the dummies in key places. (Benches, leaning on walls, astride Spring Creek, behind patrol cars, etc.) It occurred to me that I could create a story if I was creative enough in my implementation. (With the epilogue involving me getting bailed out of jail, I presume.)

I even had a list of explanations if I were caught. I’d say, “It’s an art project for the Revitalization District.” Or, I’d say, “Look at that!” and as the person looked, I’d run like hell in any possible direction.

If I keep my movements low-key, no one will think twice about dummies downtown. There are always several standing or loitering around down there and several have been elected to keep the city running. Just kidding, Doug. I’m a big fan, with the exception of that horrendous city logo – the one which invokes an image of the floor of a New York City Taxi when I look at it.

I’ve had more fun thinking about doing this than you might expect.

I’ll probably never do it now, especially after sharing it with everyone.

If there’s anyone out there reading this, though, it would make an excellent prank.

It would also make a beautiful art project if it were planned with care.

Business, Customer Service, Northwest Arkansas, Springdale, Washington County, Arkansas

A Great Customer Service Story

04/12/2018 X Teri Leave a comment

As much as I like the pursuit of a bad customer service issue, I’ve found that people overlook those times when I highly recommend a business or service.

Today, one of the owners of Oasis Property Maintenance personally reached out to ensure that he could answer my questions and make things right. It was a literal delight to hear someone directly address an issue and offer to make it fully right, even if it bit him in the pocketbook.

I reciprocated and told him to pay it forward instead and that I didn’t want any refund, credit, or compensation. Just knowing that he was willing to go to that length to ‘fix’ a mistake was enough for me. It would have been a costly fix for him. As a consumer, I should have caught the issue when I bought this house, but didn’t.

Oasis is mainly a lawn company, one which charges based on lot size. They do online billing, which is a massive benefit to those of us who are antisocial. I’ve used them since they started. They’re not perfect, but they listen if there is an issue. Taking cost and intangibles into consideration, they are almost unbeatable, unless you have a cadre of teenagers to force to do your yard work.

If you currently have a lawn service, you can look online and ‘see’ what they will charge you without any misdirection. Oasis Property Maintenance

Even though you might not see or hear me doing so, I try to thank, reward, and appreciate good businesses. Thanks, X

Northwest Arkansas, Razorback Greenway, Springdale

Barbed Wire, Safety, and Assholes

09/03/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

Barbed wire?

By now, I imagine most people in NWA heard about the 72-year-old man who was badly injured when a strand of barbed wire across the trail in South Fayetteville caught him in the neck as he rode his bike.

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of trail walking in the dark. While I’ve walked primarily along Springdale’s incredible portion, I’ve spent some time on some of Fayetteville’s trails, too. I’ve joked about the endless spider webs across the trails on some early mornings, so the idea of hitting wire does give me pause. But only for a brief second.

It’s always a possibility that someone will misbehave. In fact, it’s likely. I know I run the risk of booby traps, nails, or weirdos (weirder than me, even!) accosting me as I enjoy the trails. Barbed wire is a particularly criminal item to use to hurt those who walk, run or cycle. There are situations where I would never see it as I approached, especially at 3 a.m.

As for Springdale, I routinely see patrols on the trails. I’m not sure how it is managed in Fayetteville, but anyone alleging that Springdale isn’t doing a great job of maintaining visibility isn’t paying attention. Even with the best vigilance, though, it’s impossible to guarantee that lesser people won’t attempt all manner of shenanigans. The police can’t be everywhere – but we can.

Yesterday, as I walked around part of the new George Park complex, I surprised a family sleeping in a white sedan. Based on the what I saw, they were probably homeless and using their car to park in less obvious places. When I came upon them, I had just emerged from the blackest part of the trail in that area, the one I wrote about a few weekends ago. When I was going through it, it went through my mind that someone could have put up 147 strands of barbed wire and that some anonymous person might find me crawling out the next morning, looking like Rambo after round 11. As for that family, it didn’t occur to me to react to them with suspicion, just an appreciation that the weather wasn’t an additional discomfort for them.

On the other hand, two weekends ago, I almost stepped on someone who was sleeping inside the covered bus area in front of the public library, after I walked past a large man who was intoxicated as he haphazardly ambled along the pond at the park. I wasn’t nervous, as the only danger he presented was the one he did to the English language as he tried to speak to me as he passed me. People are generally great. It’s up to us to follow through when we see things. People walking while intoxicated are amusing, not threatening, even if they look like defensive linemen.

Which brings me to my poorly-written point…

I’ve walked mile after mile in the last few months, seeing so many sides of this great city. As you might have noticed, I’m a huge fan of the trail system and of all the changes in Springdale.

However, there’s a lot to be done here. In my own neighborhood, I watched as a 4-wheeler careened around my little corner of Springdale. He jumped the curb, rode the sidewalks, and made a car come to a screeching halt as he cut in front. Kids were walking home from school at the time, as the buses had just emptied at the side entrances to the neighborhood. It’s not the first time he’s done this. A family down the street gets on dirt bikes and rides at 80 mph, doing wheelies down the middle of the street. Another neighbor drinks and drives. A few weeks ago, I watched as an obviously drunk driver tried to use his clutch ran over the curb and stalled his Honda. (I wrote about that, too, as a humorous anecdote.) Dozens of people witness the idiots such as those on the 4-wheeler, motorcycles, or careening vehicles. Until we stop looking the other way and tolerating them, it can’t get better.

I could list more, but you get the idea: people are going to be assholes. It’s up to us to let the police know there’s a problem. Before you ask, yes, I’ve called the police when I observe these things – and not anonymously, either.

One final anecdote, if you don’t mind. I wrote a story one afternoon this week, one about the futility of insisting that one area is safer to walk than another, or that it’s better to walk in the daylight. I didn’t post it, though, because I struggled with the implied prejudice of it. There are some beautiful places near my house and I love walking them. But to say that it is ‘safe’ to be anywhere is simply not true. The opposite side of Friendship road isn’t within Springdale city limits. There are some strange residents on that side, ones dedicated to a life of crime, if not mayhem. Some of them are the “AFTER” posters you would see during a drug PSA. A driver, for whatever reason, decided that he was going to spew his venom on me as he exited the Springdale city limits. He thought I was Latino, and I think he hesitated from escalating his anger because he might not have been sure who I really was or if I was armed. I might have had to throw him across the field, WWE-style if he attacked me, or run away, screeching. Those who know me well can imagine how ridiculously fast I would have been running through the field at that point.

I don’t look at the angry driver or the minor idiots and lessen my view of people. We’re always going to have miscreants and assholes making our life more difficult. Safety and security are the goals of those we pay to protect us. Safety, though, is an illusion. I’m as likely to get injured on the sidewalk outside my own house as I am to be decapitated by barbed wire on one of our excellent trails – and probably by that biscuit-eating idiot on the 4-wheeler.

For those who asked, I’m not concerned about barbed wire along the trails.

If you recall, I had a plane crash on my residence almost 30 years ago, on a clear Saturday, September morning.

You can’t take it personally when life drops the anvil on your cartoonish head.

You can, however, let someone know if you see someone putting the anvil up in a tree.

Northwest Arkansas, Razorback Greenway

A Saturday Morning

08/26/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

If we are lucky enough we each have our own private Narnia, our own distinct lantern rendered invisible to others, hovering at the periphery of our minds. As we travel it is waiting to provide the dash of missing depth to our surroundings. Sometimes those of us who see our lanterns with greater frequency forget that many people are simply trying to get down the path and have no interest in such things. Perhaps it is an old refrain to you now, hearing me repeat it so often, but the world is a much different place at 4 in the morning and magic seems to lurk nearby with an intangible presence.

During my entire walk, the only light was the one gracing the distant parking lot.

The new trail I chose this morning didn’t need a visitor’s tally. There was no doubt that I was the first person to tread the cooled path this morning. A 1,000 arachnid Finish Lines graced my steps, each one a dark surprise in the wee morning hours. I felt like I had sprinted through a gauntlet of cotton candy after 15 minutes. I could only imagine how many spiders were measuring my neck and back with their spindly legs.

Even though it was barely 4 a.m. I could hear a high melody far off to my right. Having seen “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” I of course immediately deduced that I too would be found in the breaking morning light, nothing except empty and discarded clothing as evidence of my disappearance. Unlike Pete, though, I wasn’t prepared to satisfy my curiosity if becoming a toad were involved. I do wish I had known the origin of the music this morning. Anyone listening to such music at such an hour would have to be either a very interesting person or a very frightening one, a Schrödinger’s surprise for psychopaths.

I encountered no one on the trail. It’s possible though that a hundred unseen people were standing near the trail, watching me as I passed. The clouds granted darker cover to the night and the trail I walked was canopied above me for much of the distance. An owl hooted nearby and startled me more than I would care to admit. I had headphones, but wasn’t using them, both because of the delicious coolness of the night air, but also because the insects apparently had seen the movie “Spinal Tap,” and had voted to turn up the chirping to “11” on nature’s dial. Even now, sitting here in front of this modern electronic window to the world, I can hear only the box fan we use to help us sleep the quiet sleep of death and the wall of insects outside.

When I returned to my car, I stopped and admired the statue of General Covfefe, who valiantly fought so many years ago to ensure that locals could endlessly argue about the vestiges of racism.

Brinkley, Business, Northwest Arkansas, Personal, Springdale

Springdale & Brinkley Hold Lessons

08/20/2017 X Teri Leave a comment

This post evolved from a simple comparison of my geographical past. It grew to encompass parts of me and as such, is very personal. If you will pardon my generalizations and laziness toward exact writing, you might find something interesting.

I didn’t come to Springdale until the early 70s. My dad dragged our recently reconstituted family up here for the promise of a steady job, away from the geography which took the blame for so much of my dad’s heartache. His time in prison in Indiana and his involvement in the death of one of my cousins (unrelated to prison) had broken him of some of his desperate need to remain in his hometown. My dad had a brother here, my Uncle Buck, as well as a few cousins. Our move was prior to the miracle of the interstate reaching its tentacles up to Northwest Arkansas, so all trips to NWA were long, winding escapades. It seemed like we drove for days to reach the mountains of Springdale. I didn’t understand what a ‘hillbilly’ was. All I knew were the fields of Monroe County and the places my grandma and grandpa called home. Being with my dad was the last thing on my wish list.

Years take on a different meaning when I stop to consider that soon enough I will be exactly halfway between 1970 and 2070. Springdale and I both have changed immeasurably since I was young. The area of the Delta from which I came has continued a generally languid, shuffled march toward annihilation while NWA has become a beacon for commerce and lifestyle. It was sheer luck that my dad’s terrible fortune planted my feet here. And while the Delta was once the powerhouse of agriculture but found no clear footing to advance, Springdale and surrounding areas used agriculture as a springboard from which to dive into a diversified future. So many of us here live in houses situated on plots once adorned with grapes, apples, strawberries and all manner of other foods.

It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that the interstate running through Brinkley wasn’t always there, a fact which should have been immediately obvious. In Brinkley’s case, though, the interstate seems to have provided a convenient escape for the younger generation, as they ventured out and realized that the state had more to offer in other places. In Arkansas’ early history, roads were intensely local, often built to connect small town agricultural markets. For the affluent parts of the state, the interstate gave people and commerce alike the way to merge interests. While lifelong residents of Brinkley might wish to disagree, it is obvious that good roads shone a beacon toward better opportunities in other parts of the state. Brinkley could have been one of the jewels of this state, given its location. Even as I sometimes forget that I once loved the flatlands there, I will admit to its austere beauty.

I also forget that many parts of my early life are inexplicably entwined with those people who I deeply loved and those who were violent caricatures of real people. Geography mixes in my head and sometimes paints an unfair picture of those places, simply because the people walking across my stage were broken people. As we all do, I carry pieces of these broken people in my head, as such slivers are difficult to excise. I can hold the image of standing near a rice field near Brinkley, up to my ankles in mud, laughing; I can also imagine walking alongside a pungent Tontitown grape vine in August, my fingers cleverly stealing unwashed grapes and eating them like candies. I’m not sure which place or memory is more valid, but I do know that being surrounded by people with love in their hearts can make any geography welcoming, while immersion in the minds of lesser people will reduce the world’s brilliance regardless of where one’s feet might be. It’s how City View might have been a place of low resort for many, and a welcome mat for others.

Because of the reduced crucible I survived as a kid, on the one hand, there was so much about this town which remained unknown to me. My life was incredibly small. I could sense that it was an interesting place, though. My family moved over twenty times by the time I had reached adulthood. So many places around Springdale became familiar to me. In many ways, I feel as if this was advantageous to me, giving me a different perspective than someone who was lucky enough to remain fairly rooted in the same place growing up. In my family’s case, our ongoing moves concealed the array of abuse and violence camouflaged inside each respective new residence.

When I was in 2nd grade, I remember asking Mom what it was like attending school with black children in Monroe County. She looked at me like I had been hit with a shovel and said, “I didn’t. We were segregated.” (It was probably a lucky thing for them, though.) I wondered why Springdale was segregated, too, given that there were no black kids in class with me. How was I supposed to know that there were so few minorities living here? I was so naive. Even trying to understand that one of schoolyard buddies Danny was actually from Chile was beyond my comprehension. That’s how reduced my life was without education. Had I been born 100 years ago and remained in Monroe County, I could easily see myself in the role of unapologetic racist. My family would have raised me to believe that it was a certainty.

It’s funny now, my ignorance. In my early youth, I had never heard the word “segregated” except as a muttered curse. For most of the whites in the Delta, segregation was a word equated with government distrust. When I started learning history, it astonished me that there was such a short jump between our Civil War and WWII.

My dad took us back to Brinkley for my 3rd-grade year, to attempt to run a gas station in the no-man’s land on Highway 49 outside of Brinkley. While my home life was a slow-moving mess, school was fascinating. Just as I got acclimated to flat lands again, Dad’s failed business drove us back to Northwest Arkansas.

I remember my Uncle ___ saying that he was jealous of my dad, Bobby Dean because Springdale didn’t have ‘the plague’ of so many blacks. Other family members said the same and I only share this memory reluctantly. Perhaps it’s not wise or fair to generalize about my recollections of prejudice. On the other hand, they are my stories and as a sage once reminded us, perhaps people would behave more appropriately if they knew an observant writer was living amongst them. Truth be told, racism took a back seat when contrasted to the casual violence of my dad. I had a couple of god-fearing aunts and uncles who remind me that we should never be surprised by the sheer hatred some racists harbor in their hearts. One of the prevailing lessons they taught me was that religion could easily be twisted to justify and condone all manner of hate, all the while sitting behind a pearly-white smile and opened Bible. When I was young, I endured many a comment from them regarding my views on homosexuality, race, and language. When I grew up and realized that they were simply unadorned racists, their arguments dried up. The revisionists in life will insist they were great people and in many ways, they were the product of their times; in another way, though, they deliberately refused to change their minds, even as they paid pretense to the societal demands that they keep their boring and unimaginative racism mostly closeted.

Even though so much became second-hand to me, Springdale itself began to break away from its parochial roots; languages and color slowly entered and once inside sufficiently, kicked the door in and changed the fundamental nature of everything here. Even as I learned the town’s geography, it was already changing rapidly around me. In 1970, Springdale’s population was around 17,000. In 2015, it was on the high end of 77,000. (My hometown lost 1/2 of its population in the same time period, by comparison.) No road escaped the necessity of bulging outside of its small borders, and many signs became incomprehensible to the earlier residents. I was lucky enough to be present during many fits and tirades from Springdale residents insisting that hating the presence of another language wasn’t a sign of prejudice. They seem ignorant to almost everyone now, but the angry spew of their spittle was a sight to behold back in the day.

Springdale was akin to a debutante sent away to school in some exotic location; upon her return, she was unrecognizable as the same person. But almost everyone could look upon her and admire the changes. It’s almost impossible to turn back once someone or somewhere has caught a glimpse of the vastness of the world.

I’ve heard many people refer to Springdale as once being a Sundown Town. I don’t remember seeing such signage. On the other hand, I didn’t need to. My family provided all the exclusionary language anyone would ever need. Their distrust for minorities was amplified by our move to a white community. As strange as it is, I remember when my mom started working for Southwestern Bell (AT&T) in Fayetteville as an operator. She often came home, angrily ranting about blacks in her workplace. It was the same language she used in Monroe County except now she had a home base to retreat to, one which seemed to encourage her racism. Mom was an angry person most of her life, so the language was a symptom of her defect more than any commentary on her surroundings. Both my mom and dad fled back to Monroe County in the late 80s, after a long succession of disappointments.

Before I forget to mention it, my mom’s last job was as a custodian for Brinkley schools. The person who treated her the most kindly there was one of the black teachers there, proving that truth is stranger than fiction. Like so many racists, Mom’s racism tended to intensely situational. She couldn’t understand why I, as a white person, would ever stoop so low as to learn another language, much less love its differences. Her life was reduced by her prejudices.

The differences between the racism of Springdale and Brinkley were striking. It wasn’t until I was much older I surmised that Springdale didn’t need to be overtly racist. The whiteness of the faces walking the streets communicated a clear message as to the population. Springdale was a town waiting to be changed both monumentally and one person at a time, whether it saw the tidal wave approaching or not. It confused me how two places in the same state could be so markedly different, yet both have residents generally fixated on differences based on skin color. I’m generalizing of course, but I know that you understand the distinction I’m drawing. Most of Springdale’s residents weren’t prejudiced, of course, just unsure as to how to accommodate the changes to their towns. Racism tends to discolor a disproportionate number of people around it, giving it a larger circle than reality warrants. This circle of influence sometimes gives the wrong impression of tolerance toward prejudice and many of those practicing it become adept at hiding under its umbrella.

It’s strange to me that both Springdale and Brinkley had so much to build upon. Frankly, Brinkley had the advantage when I was young, and if a few visionaries had the temerity to act upon it, it would be flourishing now. Instead, Northwest Arkansas seized these opportunities.

Against the backdrop of economy and money, Springdale acquired deep populations of Latinos, Marshallese, and other minorities. Most of us who were paying attention and curious were amazed at the changes brought to us by different cultures. Since I’m naturally curious, I loved the overlap of cultures and couldn’t wait for it to become entrenched. Others, though, peered at it through narrowly-turned blinds, wondering if the small town they grew up in was gone forever. Thankfully, the answer was ‘yes.’ Change brought a greater viability to our town. The overlaps of other culture became so large that in many cases people felt conflicted about which culture was their primary one. That is the ‘melting’ we claim to honor as a country. The melting works much better when it is in both directions, with those who were here first welcoming the inevitable changes brought by new faces.

The same didn’t happen for Brinkley, despite it attempting a few rebrandings. The remaining base shifted out from under when it lost its Wal-Mart. People continued to flee, even if meant they’d be exposed to a greater variety of cultures elsewhere. For those who left, many have an idealized memory of what it once was. The truth, though, is that it was never really that place. People voted with their feet and the results are the only conclusion which needs no clarification. One day, hopefully, Brinkley will discern a path toward revitalization but all such paths are dead ends without new faces and new opportunities.

Springdale, albeit with a few hiccups still to come, is a place which can be a foundation for everyone to look back upon and feel a sense of community. It defies an easy definition, precisely because other groups came here to stay.