It was 90+ outside, so it seemed reasonable to take a walk on the hot sidewalks and streets at 3 in the afternoon, especially since I was still dressed in black. Since I’ve been experimenting with various incarnations of chalk, today I carried a stick of very light lime green on this walk. In the event of heat stroke, I could at least scrawl out a last message as I melted on the sidewalk: “I’m a dumbass” would probably cover it. It’s not poetry, but it’s accurate, much in the same way that Luke Bryan is singing, but it wouldn’t necessarily fall into the category of ‘music.’
I went inside to get an unsweetened tea to drink on my way back. I knelt with my back against the sun and wrote “TODAY” on the sidewalk in front of the store. The very light lime green brilliantly contrasted with the shadow created by my profile against the blistering sun. I noted that the pale green seemed to morph into blue against the shadow.
“Hey, what’cha doing?” a voice asked as I stood up. A 20-something man was the source of the voice. He was, of course, smoking. But definitely not smoking hot or smoldering with a hidden intelligence. Walgreens is the Walmart of the pharmacy world.
“Making art,” I said, keeping my face impassive and stoic.
“It looks like you’re writing with chalk to me,” he said.
“Art is the convergence of the mundane with the sublime, dude.” I laughed. I waited for him to retort in reply, as I’m nothing if not courteous.
I walked away as I put my chalk back into my front pocket, possibly in an attempt to entice people to coyishly inquire if I was happy to see them or if I had a stick of chalk in my pocket. Being curious-minded, I did ponder how many adults in Springdale had chalk in their pocket at that exact moment.
Because of the success of the color of chalk, I wrote a poem, one and two words at a time, stretching for over a mile. Above me, the sun did its best to erase my enthusiasm for the task. It amused me to know that it would be challenging to read the poem back in the order I wrote it.
And though the thing I described as art is transitory and fleeting, I suspect I’ll remember the moment. I hope the smoking young man remembers it too, trying to figure out if he had witnessed something ridiculous or sublime. It’s all in the eye of the beholder; art, love, stolen moments in the hot sun.
Because it was chilly and the sky was overcast, the atmosphere didn’t feel like May at all. It was glorious. My walk to get there was indeed long, but my feet floated on the grass and pavement as I made my way across town. As I walked, I witnessed several hundred drivers nervously hit their brakes as the increased holiday traffic police presence caught their attention. I passed a massive grove of honeysuckle, whose scent was unique and vibrant; the odd observation is that the same patch also contained more trash than any other single stretch I passed today. I noted that Magnolia Gardens is now Natural State Rock & Republic, a haven for cyclists. (Their website is top-notch, by the way.) The grounds at Magnolia are still beautiful, just like a few of my memories made there. A woman stood on her long, covered porch. As I passed, she offered me a cup of coffee. “Next time,” I told her, and she nodded. I found a picture of a young woman stuck in the criss-cross pattern of a chainlink fence – and couldn’t stop myself from conjecturing what led someone to place it there. (I’ve done the same thing countless times in my life.) I left the picture artfully placed there, hopefully for the next passerby to ponder. I wrote several index cards of messages myself, using a pack of multicolor ones I had forgotten that I had. Some of these I placed on fences, while others I left in cracks on the sidewalk, across tables in open spaces, and a couple in the branches of trees. Some were humorous, some serious. All of them contained hints of me.
On a last-minute whim, I decided to skip a usual walk and instead take a longer one to one of the main cemeteries in Springdale. I visited a couple of graves, including my cousin Jimmy’s. I spent a few moments spouting off one-liners to roast his absence. It’s not something that many people would understand if they overhead me doing so. Jimmy, though? He would howl with appreciation. I imagined his Mom, my Aunt Ardith, rolling her eyes and muttering, “Oh brother!” as I did so. Jimmy’s grave is the closest to the meandering creek on that end, and because of the recent rains, the stream echoed and combined with the birds squawking and announcing their presence.
As I walked along one of the main horizontal streets in the cemetery, I passed a group of men. They were smoking pot and drinking from tallboy cans. I could see them circumspectly look up at me. I’d already decided that my presence might make them nervous. So, I nodded and told them in Spanish to carry on and that no one would disrespect their moment at whomever’s grave they stood. They all nodded, and I left them in peace.
It’s a moment Jimmy would have appreciated. No matter how his life ended up, he was a devout admirer of marijuana when he was younger. For anyone who would mind me saying so, Jimmy wouldn’t. Now that eight years have elapsed since his death, I am sure that all truths, both small and large, bear him no harm. Whether he lies in eternal silence or walks in his idea of heaven, I know that he’d laugh and say, “F’em.”
I left the cemetery, trying to decide whether I should walk further. I walked quite a way in the opposite direction before opting to walk back to downtown. Emma was closed off, and people were setting up tables and chairs along the main street. Vendors were scattered along the same path, extending up to Shiloh Square and Turnbow Park.
I ate at Mr. Taco Loco (because life is too damn short to miss a chance to do so). I spent a few minutes waiting for my food and inadvertently listening to several tables full of people gossipping and saying things louder than they probably intended to. Though I had headphones on, I wasn’t listening to music, though they probably assumed I was tuned out to them. In honor of this, I’d like to give a shout-out to Nathan, who is never returning to the job he hates and is using the excuse of the holiday to miss all next week: his employer thinks he had a death in the family. Rock on, Nathan.
To my surprise, I convinced myself to forego an Uber back to my house. I’m glad I did, although my legs are complaining a bit already about my choice. I tried to focus on walking to the next traffic light and no further. Usually, as I make these small commitments, the walk doesn’t seem as daunting. I feel like there’s a metaphor or analogy for life in this somewhere.
By the time I made it back several hours later, the sun was out, and making my choice of wearing a light jacket a regret. I still carried the shadows from along the creek in my head, though. No one can see them, nor the smell of dozens of honeysuckle plants in my nose. I’m not sure why I know I’ll remember this walk for years to come. In part, it will be the length, yes. The other facet is that each of us is a work in progress, often unaware that we’ve shifted in ways both insignificant and transformational.
As tough as life has been, there are still moments of sublime depth. This morning, I got my chance to walk without worrying about turning around and making it back home. I walked so far that Uber had to rescue me. The driver was tickled by my tip, as I gave him one he wasn’t expecting, all in new Thomas Jefferson dollar coins. As I walked, I saw so many interesting things: the sunrise, the geese squawking at me from their artificial strip of wetland on the perimeter of the airport, the whoosh of a plane so close I could feel my insides vibrate, the remnants of last night’s carnival (and a worker sitting in a place in which he thought himself unobserved, smoking a cigarette, his dangling legs swinging comically), hidden murals brightly calling for attention, new apartments and buildings shining against the dim sunlight, businesses I’ve never noticed, upstairs studio apartments that are no longer hidden to me, empty voids where buildings once stood, a weary overnight George’s worker walking home still wearing his rubber poultry boots (something I well remember from my own life when I was much younger), a Marshallese man inexpertly riding a bicycle and attempting to avoid falling on his face as he did so, a variety of people moving through the early hours, each intent on whatever private life they were leading. And – me, among them, as an observer. I didn’t take a lot of pictures because I already knew that whatever alchemy swirled in my head, it was something that wouldn’t translate secondhand. I wanted to walk twice as far as I did, despite my legs beginning to waver. There are some mornings in which time feels like a tide against my back. Even so, reality intruded to tell me that I couldn’t walk forever, though I wanted to.
I stole a walk from the afternoon, one born from a casual glance out my window. The trees behind the house bent and blew with surprising force. Though I sat with heavy legs and with no thought of an excursion, I found myself outside and walking within minutes. The wind howled in my headphones. As I walked along Friendship, I was reminded of how many school buses ran through this corridor in the afternoon. East Springdale, despite its limited number of arteries, has more schools than you would imagine. By the time I reached the long stretch that touches 412, I had realized I would have to consider going back. I looked across at the massive cemetery and the thousands of truncated stories buried there. Once past, I reluctantly turned and walked back. Looking up at the deep blue sky, I took a picture to capture the tenuous magic. Switching to music, I marched my way back, shrugging off the acres of reminders that afternoons like this are fleeting.
I don’t know how it is in y’alls neighborhoods this afternoon. The streets, driveways, and yards are filled with visitor’s vehicles; crab boils, BBQs, quinceañeras, birthdays, and cumpleaños. Within a block of me, there must be at least ten parties and festive celebrations. The streets are scattered with kids absently ignoring everyone and everything, seemingly to fill all available spaces. Mexican, Marshallese, Salvadoreans, and yes, even boring white people with questionable sock and shirt choices animatedly chatter away the minutes. The combined cloud of music could only be played on a schizophrenic radio station. I don’t know who flipped the switch, but it’s refreshing. Collectively, mysteriously, this neighborhood got the memo that something’s changed.
The mural project on the (house) on Holcomb street is coming along well. I’m envious! It’s going to be spectacular.
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As I walked back through Turnbow park in Downtown Springdale, a young man wearing a nondescript uniform stood by an access panel on the perimeter of the walkway and flowers. He fiddled with the controls. When he turned, he said, “Tell’em to move.” He repeated it, but only I could hear it as I walked past. About thirty feet ahead, two more workers stood near the grassy section opposite the bike and coffee shop. I couldn’t tell what the box was on the ground near the closest worker, but I deduced that they were supposed to be working in concert with the man I was passing. There were people on benches and at the tables, scattered around, eating and drinking. On beautiful days like today, it’s an ideal spot, especially before summer comes to cook heads exposed to the sun. Two older ladies were approaching the other two workers. I wish I had my phone up, as the camera app was open. As the man behind me said, “Tell-em to move!” a little more loudly, the sprinkler system they’d been adjusting whooshed to life, giving the two older ladies a quick startle. I turned, shrugged, and laughed as I nodded to the man adjusting the control panel. “Good job,” I told him.
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The mural across from the Chamber of Commerce is coming along well, too. Downtown has a lot of activities tomorrow, including square-to-square bike rides.
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I took a picture where Water street abuts George Park. I was facing what used to be the Layman’s block. It’s fascinating to stand in open urban spaces, especially where such space hasn’t existed for decades. The sun was phenomenally bright. It might not have been good to have opted to walk wearing all black.
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I walked around a few buildings that I haven’t in a long time; in part, this was because I try to avoid looking like a prowler when I criss-cross the urban landscape in the dark. As usual, I saw people, places, and things that were interesting.
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To my surprise, I got BEHIND the fence, somehow. As I’ve learned, though, if you look like you belong, well, you belong wherever you are.
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I took many other pictures. Because the sun was so bright and because I’m a terrible photographer, most resulted in dark (or overly whitish) blobs. One of the pictures I hoped would be great was of a woman who was staring at me in a strange way as I stood by one of the buildings. So, I snapped a picture of her and she sped off. I laughed.
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Watching him play the guitar made me REALLY want to learn to play. Not for my own sake, but so that I could teach him how to do it correctly.
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It’s not my idea, but I agree that the bomb squad should run away from every properly defused bomb. It’ll make great footage and give spectators something to laugh and talk about afterward.
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I am 100% certain that TikTokers are using my old lists of jokes and ideas for videos.I just watched another one using the idea of wearing a ski mask to bed at night to confuse would-be robbers.
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The problem with having a collection of sidewalk chalk is that everything easily becomes a canvas. Whether intended or not.
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I have a co-worker who is 60+. He’s in great shape. A few weeks ago, someone asked him to run the Hogeye Marathon with him. My co-worker ran EIGHTEEN miles on his first day of training. I asked him, “You do know that the race is ONLY 26+ miles, right?”
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The Hogeye Marathon passes through my neighborhood. On the other hand, it is no accident that even visitors are smart enough to RUN through East Springdale.
The algorithms at work on the internet know way too much. I googled “Interesting things to do in East Springdale” as a joke. Literally, the first thing that popped up was an ad for funeral services. Note that even the maps of this part of the town convey a very specific message…
It was an unexpectedly cold morning. Even so, tulips were everywhere downtown, giving me splashes of color in bursts as I walked. It was beautiful to witness so many installations of canopy and outdoor lights in alleys and nooks and crannies.
There are places in Downtown Springdale that startle you with a mix of form and function. If the right people are involved, this could be amazing. I’m hoping that color finds a better home here.
Downtown Springdale is substantially different than it was a year ago. Entire blocks and buildings have surrendered to history, while others sprouted in their wake. It feels like the area is awakening. Even as the national economy falters, it’s difficult to miss the fact that Downtown64 (as it should be called, by the way) is the focus of a lot of energy and attention. Art, storefront displays, food, outdoor dining/drinking, public spaces, the Apollo Events Center, a trail, bike shops, lofts/apartments off Emma, a marathon, murals, and outdoor dining events; the area is markedly different than it once was. That’s a good thing.
The Arts Center of the Ozarks, often overlooked. Even though the picture is blurry, I’m leaving it, if only because I didn’t have my glasses on when I took the picture.
One of the many murals showing up all over Springdale. If I had a say, every wall would be covered in color and beauty.
Perhaps the ugliest logo in human history. Not quite the ugliest, but I still hate how this logo somehow made it through the process of becoming the city’s logo.
Don Guero’s is no Mr. Taco Loco, but it adds flavor to Emma.
Out of the last several times I’ve dined out, it’s been on Emma. Fair or not, living in East Springdale isn’t conducive to fine dining.
The one thing that is missing for me is a coffee shop for early morning. Such a place would bring visitors to Emma at an earlier hour. As the number of people working near Emma increases, it is inevitable. The question is who’ll realize the pull of such a place first. Art economies require copious amounts of both alcohol and caffeine. I included Bike Rack’s picture because the hours posted on the door don’t coincide with them being open. Trailside Coffee inside the Phat Tire Bike Shop is the other competitor, located off of Shiloh Square and Turnbow Park. Maybe we’ll get back to normal when the pandemic is over.
Speaking of ‘open hours,’ the barbershop adjacent to the Apollo had the same problem the other morning. Unless the clientele is vampire-oriented, someone forgot to turn the light off by 4 a.m.
That is a fox in the middle of the picture. I heard yipping and scampering behind me for at least a minute. I assumed it was a dog following me. It wasn’t. It was Mr. Fox. He was mostly unafraid of me. I took the picture near the intersection of Grove and Quandt, where the vacant church that should be a private residence sits. Years ago, I lived on Grove Street, near the Arts Center of the Ozarks.
I like Emma much, much better now that someone wisely installed multiple 4-way stops and mostly eliminated the one-way street nonsense that once plagued downtown.
Taken from the creekside portion of the trail approaching Huntsville Avenue.
Many people are unaware that there are loft apartments above James & James off Emma.
Storefront art installations; this one is across from The Odd Soul and Mr. Taco Loco on Emma.
Small house tucked away near the Apollo Theater. I love such residences, along with upper story apartments and condos in urban areas. A smart developer built a row of apartments near the old Washington Elementary building past the Community Clinic and near the Jones Center. I think it’s brilliant. (Little Emma apartments) They look sleek and modern. The picture I snapped of them looked terrible.
The old Layman building property. Except for the corner on Water Street, the entire block is gone. For Springdale residents, the absence of anything here is striking.
… as does the block that once held the Bank of American and HelpCard building, along the railroad excursion depot.
If you’re interested, you can still go back to 2007 using Google Streetview and ‘drive’ the old Emma and its old buildings. It’s worth the time to do so if that sort of thing interests you.
No matter how you feel about the changes to Downtown Springdale, you should prepare yourself for ongoing transformation. Millions of dollars will continue to funnel through this corridor. I predict it will be both functional and beautiful. That Springdale is building its new Criminal Justice Center within pitching distance of the Shiloh Museum and Turnbow Park is genius. It anchors downtown and adds an element of safety to visitors. It’s possible to walk for thirty minutes and witness millions of dollars of investment happening right in front of us.
If you’re a fan of Springdale, I recommend that you walk the area when other people are still asleep. It’s another world an done conducive to discovering new things about our common geography.
The Springdale diner once stood proudly along Highway 71. Its gravel parking lot was a declaration of authenticity for those who frequented it. Though the town was growing, most residents chose the diner as their default. The waitresses were all grouchy, except for Macy, who loved everyone. The owner’s wife Mildred hated Macy for that very reason. It didn’t help matters that Macy was pretty and outgoing; Mildred looked an anvil with legs. Her singing voice in the church caused several devout Methodists to defect to the Baptist camp. If Mildred handled the register, tips usually went up due to many people choosing to pay the bill by dropping money on the table and bypassing Mildred.
Coffee flowed through the diner and the people inside it like a caffeine river. Had self-serve carafes existed then, the residents of Springdale would not have been pleased. Half the reason to have a go-out, sit-down meal was to interact and verbally jostle with those you’d encounter doing the same. Many of the wives claimed that such things didn’t matter, but most had carefully applied lipstick and checked their hairdo at least ten times that morning. Quite a few used Saturday morning to see their hairdressers.
On that March day, the wind blew and howled across the two-lane streets, taking dust and chicken feathers to every crevice. Not that townsfolk were uppity enough to drive convertibles, but if they had, their smiles would have been feather-filled and their lungs coated with the detritus of poultry.
By noon, all but one seat in the diner was filled. The exception was the chair always reserved for the diner’s unofficial number one eater. Earl only visited once or twice a week because his nephew Lou needed to drive him there. Earl saved the diner owner’s life in WWII. He would never pay for a meal for the rest of his life. Many people were unaware that Macy, the pretty waitress, was Earl’s daughter.
Macy and the other three waitresses ran from the kitchen window to tables, their fingers doing triple-duty as they placed plates, refilled drinks, and cleared tables. Wives secretly watched their husbands as their eyes followed Macy as she did her work. Most tolerated it as harmless fun. It was easy to see which wives were easygoing and which could rain hellfire down on their spouses’ heads. You could witness moms hitting the husbands with the same frequency they swatted at their kid’s perceived misbehavior.
Most of the diners chose the Saturday special. Today’s was meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, and a slice of one of seven pie varieties.
As the families ate, you’d occasionally see different folks stand up to give a quick “Hello” to someone. Such courtesies were a requirement of Saturday eating. If someone needed a longer word, they could step outside and have a cigarette and watch the traffic pass by. The ladies opted for the coat rack. Gossip was expected there, even though they disguised it with half-whispers and cautious glances around before divulging the latest news.
As the wind howled, the front door of the diner came open. Dozens of feathers eddied and blew inside. None of the people inside looked up or noticed.
The diner welcomed all visitors: even feathers, both the curse and the fuel for this town.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 