Booger Hollow & The Double-Decker Outhouse


Sign leading to Booger Hollow Trading Post
Yes, Virginia, there really is a place called Booger Hollow and yes, it really does have a two-story outhouse. Situated in Pope County on Scenic Arkansas Highway 7, Booger Hollow Trading Post was built in 1961. Booger Hollow, with a "Population 7, count'en one coon dog"  perfectly represents the barefoot hillbilly image the state has tried to live down for many years. Honestly though, there's still enough truth in the myth that the stereotype isn't going away anytime soon.

A hollow (holler) is a narrow valley between hills and mountains. The word "Booger" is derived from the ancient Welsh word "Bwg," which meant "to scare." Eventually the word evolved into "Boo," Bogus," and "Booger," all of which have slightly different meanings, but all indicate something frightening or unknown.


In the 1800's, the road from Russellville to Dover ran through the Bull Frog Valley to the geographic site of where Booger Hollow is today. On either side of the hollow are two cemeteries. Locals believed the area was haunted by the inhabitants of the cemeteries. Few people went traipsing around by themselves after dark. The name Booger Hollow stuck and that's how it's known to this day.

The Booger Hollow Trading Post is situated on a mountain top about 10 miles from the actual Booger Hollow. At least the buildings are anyway. I recently took a little day trip to see this place with my own eyes and found that sadly, after 44 years in business, the doors were shut and it is no more. In early 2004, several people offered to buy the property from Charlotte Johnson, the owner. All indicated they wanted to keep the place open. After years of hard work with little time off, she wanted to slow down, to spend time with her family, so she sold to a couple from Green Forest. Unfortunately, they didn't make the payments and the place closed down. Charlotte got the place back, but the land beneath the buildings somehow legally went to someone else and although there were several attempts to re-open, the doors have remained closed since late that year.

Front porch of the post store.
In it's heyday, the trading post consisted of the post itself, which featured hillbilly themed knick-knacks like corn-cob pipes, polished rocks, painted hand-saws, hand-made quilts, and hand-carved walking sticks. It also sold hand-crafted items and goods like honey with a piece of the comb in the jar, sorghum, and lye soap. Items like the "Hillbilly Chicken Dinner" (a wooden box you opened only to find a piece of corn glued inside) and the "Hillbilly Lighter" (a wooden box which contained a match) were popular sellers. It also held a post office and sold fishing bait. Next door to the post was a restaurant called The Chuckwagon which featured high-browed fair like the Boogerburger, the Boogerdog, ham sandwiches and frito chili pie. There was also a small store that sold cured hams. Perhaps the main attraction though was the two story outhouse. The lower level was a real "working" outhouse, but the upper level was always closed, with a sign on the front which said, "upstairs closed til we figure out plummin."

There used to be red and white signs, starting about 10 miles away in both directions, that advertised the cured hams, the ice cold drinks, the keepsakes, and said, "Booger Hollow, 9 miles;" "Booger Hollow, 8 miles" and so on.  They drew you on, closer and closer, until you simply could not pass it up. They are gone now. There is still the population sign on the north side, but it is within feet of the turn in and I missed it before I could slow down enough. Fortunately, there is another turn in on the south side so I used that one to pull into the small gravel parking lot.

The empty store
In front of me stood the old red and white buildings, looking sad, lonely, and showing the years of neglect. Blackberry bushes with thorns, but no berries, have grown up through the floorboards of the porch. The signs are still on the doors and windows, the windows which haven't been broken out anyway. There is no breeze, no cars pass on the road a few feet away. I'm alone and the sound of solitude is loud in my ears. For some strange reason I feel a little uneasy. It's afternoon daylight and I'm not a scaredy-type person, but this time I feel better after retrieving the Bowie knife I carry in the truck. I attached it to my belt and ventured onto the front porch. The boards creaked and gave a little, but held.

Being careful to avoid the sticker bushes as much as possible, I peered through a broken pane at the rows of empty shelving inside the post. There was nothing left on the disarrayed shelves except dust and a few cobwebs. Making my way to the restaurant, I once again looked through broken windows and saw the old menu sign above the order-window, still advertising Boogerburger, $2.99, with cheese, $3.29. The kitchen area appeared neat and clean except for the layer of dust which covered everything. It looked like with a good cleaning, the Boogerburger could be cooked again tomorrow.

I stuck my camera through the broken glass and was focused on taking pictures when something big and black came hurtling through the air at my head! I instinctively jerked my head and hand back, lucky to not cut anything on the broken glass and for a split second, started to reach for the knife hanging at my side. I realized though, it was just a black bird, scared by me from the home he had probably made in the rafters, making his escape through the broken pane above the one I was looking through. I had to chuckle, picturing myself futilely flailing away like a madman with a knife in my hand at a bird flying around me. Alfred Hitchcock evidently is alive and well inside my head! Two cars sped past on the road and somehow, the uneasy feeling passed.

The cafe - and where a bird scared the 
daylights out of me!
I made my way to the side of the little complex, and there it stood, the famous double-decker outhouse. Trees and weeds are about to overtake it and I've no doubt, without maintenance, it will soon be engulfed and eventually taken down by time and green growing things.

Perhaps someday, someone will come along, re-build and re-open the Booger Hollow Trading Post. Or perhaps it will continue to slowly wither away until it is just a distant memory in old people's thoughts and fading pictures. Personally, I would like to see it restored and opened again. It may have been a perpetrator of the hillbilly stereotype, but it's still sad to lose one of the great roadside attractions in America.

The infamous double-decker outhouse

Note written beside the door to the cafe. "Ma" was
obviously very loved by her grandchildren. 

The Road Trip

Like the quote in Field of Dreams, the builders of roads have tapped into something very basic and deep within Americans - build it and they will come. The adventure of the American road trip is a timeless tradition. Ever since Henry Ford rolled out that first Model T, we've had a love affair with cars. The country grew up around cars. North to south, east to west, cars have enabled us to travel this great country and feed our sense of freedom and adventure. For me, I travel because life is short and office chairs are no fun to sit in. So many places and so little time!

Whenever I leave on one of my trips, I feel regret for the people who must remain behind. Heading out, I feel the excitement of freedom, but everyone else has to live where they are.  The drive-through kid at Wendy's, the unemployment counselor looking up at the same endless line of people waiting to see her, the waitress at IHOP - all of them stuck in place while I have who knows what waiting for me around the next bend in the road or over the next hill. The prettiest and best place is always the one that lays just ahead of me.

I'm in love with movement. Not as a continuous way of life, but as a periodic tonic. I need to get out of town for a while, calm my head and see what I haven't yet seen. I think the urge to travel is an ancient human trait, a legacy  from when our ancestors roamed the earth as hunter-gatherers. In modern times, I think Americans in particular, dream of the road; adventure and freedom from routines and responsibilities, away from a state of mind, from having to live the way others expect us to live - the home with 2-car garage and a mortgage; the electric bill; the water bill; the gas bill; the car payment; the kid's braces; pulling weeds; going to work Monday morning. Who doesn't want to saddle up the horse and just ride away into the sunset? In 1530, Cabeza de Vaca said as he and his men were exploring America; "We ever held it certain that going toward the sunset we would find what we desired."

Not that long ago, geologically speaking, when "wild" Indians roamed North America, they sometimes captured white folk. If the captives were taken as children, the vast majority of them would easily assimilate into the tribe and live their lives as Indians. When Indians were captured, they invariably had no desire to join white society with its laws, punishments, taboos and permanent houses. In 1764, a captive exchange took place along the Muskingum River in Ohio. The Indian prisoners ran back to their tribe laughing with tears of joy running down their faces. The white captives had to be bound hand and foot and forcibly dragged, kicking and screaming, back to civilization. In a short period of time, most of them ran away and went back to live with the Indians.

There is a whole continent at my back door, 2,700 miles wide and 1,200 miles tall, with no border crossings or language barriers to break the flow of the trip. Total freedom to go where I want, to see what I want, to stop where I want. It's something people around the world dream about - to come to America, rent a car and drive the country. I'm so thankful I can do it anytime.

"A good traveler has no fixed plans and is 
not intent on arriving."
Laozi

Bigelow & The Daffodils

In central Arkansas is a town that is not well known by outsiders and quiet a few area residents only know of this small town for one reason - a little flower named after a beautiful Greek boy. You may have heard of him. Narcissus became so obsessed with his own reflection as he kneeled and gazed into a pool of water that he fell into the water and drowned. From the spot where he died, the beautiful Narcissus flower grew. Today, most people call it by it's common name, the daffodil.

The peaceful area around Bigelow.
Esau was a small community a few miles southwest of the present Toadsuck Ferry Bridge just outside of Conway. Over time, Esau grew until it touched the edge of the small town of Fourche. In 1911, Fourche River Mill owner, N.P. Bigelow, built a big, fancy white house on a hill above the town. He was elected mayor, and then he gained permission from the Arkansas General Assembly to change the name of Esau to Bigelow. At one time, Bigelow was the biggest town in the county. A vote was eventually taken to move the county seat from Perryville to Bigelow and Bigelow won the vote. However, Perryville refused to recognize the outcome and would not turn over the county paperwork so the move was never made.

Not much left of downtown Bigelow.
Over time, the mills closed, stores closed, and Bigelow lost residents until it became what it is today, a small country community with 329 residents, a few living in the town proper and most living on land surrounding the town. Though weathered and leaning, some of the old buildings still stand offering testimony to days gone by. There are several small, but long-established churches in the area that serve the residents. One of these churches is the United Methodist Church at Wye Mountain. Although only 50 members strong, the church owns a large field behind their building; not a field of hay or woods or grass; but a field of thousands and thousands of daffodil plants. And in this field, every year, they hold a festival - The Daffodil Festival.

The festival is held at different times every year because the daffodils don't bloom according to a schedule. It is held when the daffodils want it held and that's the way it should be. It's very informal. There are no rock bands nor do you have to purchase arm bands at the gate. You just show up. You can bring a blanket and a picnic if you'd like and mill around the field. They normally have a little shop open with handmade crafts you can buy. You can also purchase bulbs and daffodils ($1 per dozen) so you can bring a little "Wye Mountain" home with you. The proceeds go to pay the church's minister.

Field of daffodils.
It's not the most exciting festival in the world but it's something that a lot of people make a point to go to each year and if you happen to be around the Little Rock area in March, ask a resident if the daffodils are blooming. They'll know where to send you.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

                                        William Wordsworth