In 1975, my wife and I moved from a small cosmopolitan city to almost-Arkansas, Missouri.  In some ways it was de-evolution, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  From Greek bakeries, Jewish delis, jazz concerts, and Broadway quality theatre, we came to Myrtle’s Eats, grabbing suckers, Porter Wagoner, and drive-in movies.  Being a [...]]]>

Blackberry Bruin

In 1975, my wife and I moved from a small cosmopolitan city to almost-Arkansas, Missouri.  In some ways it was de-evolution, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  From Greek bakeries, Jewish delis, jazz concerts, and Broadway quality theatre, we came to Myrtle’s Eats, grabbing suckers, Porter Wagoner, and drive-in movies.  Being a small-town type originally myself, I made the switch fairly easily.  My very adaptable wife followed close behind.  We slowed down and settled in an area where the closest town – a bustling metropolis of nearly 2,000 souls – was 15 miles away over roads that would have scared the average northern tourist to death.

In that part of the Ozarkian Outback, rural bridges were one-lane affairs – open if the creeks weren’t up.  In some areas, streams ran directly across the road.  If it rained, you stayed home.  Pick-up trucks outnumbered cars three to one – before pick-ups were fashionable.  Rifles and buggy whips graced rear truck windows, women did not wear short-shorts, the average unskilled wage was half the federally mandated minimum, education was optional, Red Man and moonshine the drugs of choice, and if you didn’t mind living on a dirt road and fording a creek to get home, you could rent a two bedroom rock house with a cellar on significant acreage for $75 a month – which is exactly what we did.  We cooled with open windows, cut our own wood for heat, lighted with kerosene, kept chickens and pigs, sometimes missed television, and got by.  Then we had a visitor.