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. 

Caddo Indian Memorial

Entrance to the memorial park.

I had put Norman, Arkansas in the rear view mirror of my pickup and just a short piece down the road I came upon Caddo Indian Memorial Park. It wasn't much really, just an open area with a trail around it; a couple of vague mounds in the middle that apparently were built by the Indians long ago for some purpose nobody is really sure of. You had to kind of squint your eyes and use a bit of imagination to see them. I thought it would be something interesting, but sometimes what sounds interesting isn't. I certainly appreciated the fact that somebody or some organization constructed this memorial to the Indians that lived here until the late 1700's; there just wasn't much to it. There was a sign with a nice Caddo Indian Memorial Poem.





Blessed are all who enter here, for this is hallowed ground.
Look around and hear the heartbeat of a different time.
My ancestors are buried here, amongst nature.
Holy are the beauties of this earth.
Holy are the glories of the skies above.
Feel their essence in the air, exalted in the sunshine and the clouds.
Each leaf, each tree, each insect, beloved parts of the whole of creation
Not to be done without.

Here, I remember Grandmother's long gray braids, once shiny, black as satin.
Her cooking pot full of stew, rich aroma whetting my appetite;
Her daily chanting, comforting as the chirping birds.
I miss her warmth, her knowing eyes.
Grandfather too, who now dwells by her side.
He taught me to hunt game, made my first bow and arrows with his gnarled hands.
He showed me respect for the gifts of the earth.
Fishing with Grandfather on the river not only brought food,
but was one of the real pleasure's of life.

Feel the presence within these grounds you encircle.
Take time to walk a little taller, to feel more alive.
Breath deep of the soil,
You will strive for excellence and be better than you were when first you arrived.
Enjoy my family.
Enjoy my people.
Know that in truth, we are all one.

 I stood there in the heat of an excessively hot August day with sweat dripping down my neck and contemplated the poem. I didn't have to worry about someone else impatiently waiting behind me; I was the only person there. Like a lot of people, I have a certain affinity for Native Americans, imagining a much simpler time, a time when people didn't rape the earth, but lived with what the earth provided; a time when people didn't kill women and children just because they didn't believe the same. Of course, reality was different from our idealized vision. That vision is really just a projection of the way we should live, the way we would like to live if but only we could.

I finally grew too uncomfortable, the sun beating down, the heat suffocating. I made my way back to the air conditioned comfort of my truck and started to pull out of the little gravel parking lot. I glanced over and noticed a road sign just down from the Caddo Indian Memorial sign. I thought, "How appropriate. What better way to show how far we've come." The Indians had lived right here for who knows how long. We come into the picture and here in this remote place, surrounded with hundreds, even thousands of acres of nothing but woods, right next to this memorial place, we put a solid waste station. It upset me at first. I thought of Iron Eyes Cody, the crying Indian in the "Keep America Beautiful" commercial back in the early 1970's.

But then, in spite of my great desire to keep that idealized version of Indian life in my head, I thought, "Indians had to poop too. And they probably had one area where they all went so they wouldn't be nervous about walking around the village and stepping in something."  Maybe that area was right here. Most likely, all we did was put our version of a big outhouse right on top of theirs. Then I turned right onto the road and put this place in my rear view mirror too.

The Story of Ink

The unincorporated community of Ink, Arkansas, located on Highway 88 east of Mena, received its name in 1887. The U. S. Post Office, trying to cut down on duplicated town names, required towns to submit at least three alternate names on the submission form. Instructions on the ballot sheet distributed to the community asking for a town name said, “Write in ink” so that’s what a lot of folks did. When the first choice of “Mellon” was rejected because a different town already had that name, the 2^nd most popular choice, “Ink” was awarded. Nobody knows what the 3^rd alternate name was.

Closed Ink convenience store

Even more of a sleepy little town today than it was over 100 years ago, the Ink post office closed its doors in 1967. With only 1 business open (a cement delivery service), and a few widely scattered homes, it is very close to being a full-blown ghost town. It does, however, have a large, very well maintained cemetery which serves the area. The cemetery is home to almost more living things than the community - 2 roadrunners.

Ink community center

One of the roadrunners living in the cemetery.

Abandoned Ink home - the norm

Postcard From Hodgson Mill - Missouri

After partaking of the free hotel breakfast in Mountain Home, we checked out a bit earlier than our usual 10:00AM, grabbed some fruit to go from the buffet and headed north until once again we crossed into Missouri. The morning was overcast and we drove into and out of several rain showers. The distinctive smell of fresh rain came through the vents.

Heading north on Missouri State Road PP

It didn't take long for us to get back on Route 160 just east of Hardenville. Four miles later we crossed an arm of Norfork Lake, passed through Tecumseh (don't blink!) and turned left on State Highway PP. We were headed to Hodgson Mill, built in 1894 and supposedly the prettiest and most photographed mill in Missouri. We had a road, but we didn't have an address and the GPS didn't list it as a point of interest so figuring we'd probably see signs once we got in the vicinity, we simply trusted we would be able to find it. A short drive on PP and we connected with State Road H, which is the road we were told. Sure enough, we saw a sign announcing the mill and there it was off to the left.

Hodgson Mill

It was beautiful! We pulled into the very small, gravel parking lot just as another car was leaving. By the time we got out of the car, we were the only people there. No cars on the road, no cars there with us, no kids running around screaming or arguing; just quiet solitude. When we spoke, we naturally lowered our voices. It started to rain again, but just a nice, gentle, soft rain. The creek bubbling down a small waterfall and over the rocky creek bed and raindrops falling on the leaves were
the only sounds.

Fog covered the waterway so with camera in hand and leaving the mill behind for now, I followed a wooded path beside the stream. The rain stopped and soon I was inside the forest waiting for fairies to emerge, fly around, and drop pixie dust on me. A short ways in and the fog-covered creek came into view again. I was in an etheral, exquisite nature-made church, more beautiful than any man-made structure no matter how many stained-glass windows it might have. I took a few pictures, but the click of my camera seemed intrusive so I turned it off and just stood there for a time, admiring the beauty and soaking in the sounds of nature which are so quiet and peaceful.

Youngest-daughter came down the trail looking for me so eventually I reluctantly left church and walked back to the mill. Walking up a little hill I noticed an old abandoned log cabin. I looked in and saw only a few pieces of old, broken down furniture and cobwebs. Later I found out it was where early owners of the mill lived. At some point, they had an addition built onto their residence and opened a restaurant. It was supposed to be pretty good with a menu of items made from the milling and fresh game hunted in the area. Eventually they sold out and the new owners closed and tore down the restaurant portion of the cabin and lived there themselves. When they sold in the 1950's, the new owners built a new log cabin to live in several hundred yards in the woods. After it was finished though, for some reason nobody can recall, they never moved in so both cabins, one old and the other brand new, have been unused.

Old cabin

The mill wasn't milling when we were there because the water was too high. There is a small store within the mill which was open and tended by a very nice older lady. We purchased several bags of ground corn for the Momma-woman to do her magic cooking with and looked at the old photo's on the walls.

It was time to go and as we left, it started raining again. We headed on down the road to another mill, Zanoni, but this one will be fondly remembered for a good long time.

"New" cabin

Postcard From Natural Stone Bridge of Arkansas

If you are heading to Branson coming from Little Rock, you will travel west on I-40 and turn north in Conway on State Highway 65.  In the foothills of the Ozarks about 40 miles north of Conway is one of those interesting, quirky little tourist attractions that in these days of cookie cutter McDonalds and Wal-Marts and Starbucks at seemingly every highway exit, offers something a little different, a little slower paced, and a whole lot more interesting.

As you come on the town of Clinton (population 2,283), about 3.5 miles from where SH 65 splits from Hwy 9, watch for a  road labeled "Natural Bridge." The 1 mile drive down this side road itself is a bit of an adventure - perfectly drivable by any vehicle, but do take it a bit slow. At its end is a paved widened parking area and a little wooden shack selling curio's and keepsakes. After paying the reasonable $3.00 access fee,  walk out the back door and begin a short hike to the site of the Natural Bridge.

On the way, you will pass a reproduction of an Arkansas still site (no moonshine samples available), see lots of little caves formed by fallen boulders, see a number of different species of trees and plants, and finally, you will come to the bridge.  It is not an arch bridge like those found in Utah's Arches National Park, but a compression bridge of a huge flat slab of stone stretched across a waterway tumbling down the hillside.

The main slab is about 120 feet long and over twelve feet off the ground. Located in a very quiet, heavily forested area, it is a great place to visit, listen to the birds, relax in the quietness, and just get off the road for a short break.

 

Hitting The Road

There is still an America out there, begging to be driven, begging to be found. Have the interstates, the price of gas and the rush of our daily lives sucked the romance out of road trips? Has the compulsion to see what's around the next bend or over the next rise been killed? Are road trips now just a relic of days gone by? Sadly, for most people, I think so.

But not for all of us. Most people like the idea of a road trip; rolling down the byways just to see what's out there, but few actually do it. I sometimes look on a map and pick out a place that catches my fancy because of its name - Fly, Tenessee; Ben Hur, Arkansas; Happy, Texas - and plot a course from here to there, taking only the 2-lane blacktop roads. I want to see country not infested with dozens of fast food places, large office buildings and traffic backed up at traffic lights. I want to be in towns where you park on the street on the town square a few feet from the front door of the business. I want to see old men sitting on benches in a park and talk to them for a while, finding where to eat the best bar-b-que and the best pies this side of heaven and yes, I'll tell Alice hi for you when she serves me. I don't mind getting stuck behind the occasional tractor using the same road I am. I want to go to places between nowhere and never heard of.

Invariably, when I tell someone I've just returned from a road trip, they ask, "Where'd you go?" And I'm stuck on how to answer, how to tell the story. They seem confused if I tell them my destination wasn't Dallas or Memphis or New York City or some other large or at least well-known spot. They don't seem to understand it's not where you went, it's what happened on the way. It's about contentment with the land you are driving through, listening to good music and loudly singing along sounding good only to yourself, thinking about your life and the choices you made (both good and bad), wondering whatever happened to old flames, and planning what you will do when you hit the lottery.

It's the joy of running into Mabel, the 88-year-old lady who still single-handedly runs the old wooden-floored convenience store on Route 66 in Oklahoma that she and her husband built "back in the day" and the house next door where they lived, loved, and raised 6 children and getting her autograph on a bottle of Route 66 root beer I bought from her. She put down her cigarette long enough to find a felt pen and sign it. Nobody was, by God, going to tell her she couldn't smoke in her own damn store. It saddened me greatly when 2 years later, I heard she had recently died and the store was closed. I'm glad I stopped. Now, when I think of the word "feisty," she is my mental image.

It's the fun of the cute small-town girl who served me a delicious bar-b-que sandwich plate in some forgotten spot along the road (hand-painted on the front window - "Almost World Famous!") with the top two buttons of her blouse undone, leaning over and smiling big as she took my order, obviously working me for a big tip. I left a $20 bill for a $9 tab and didn't mind.

When I see a map of the United States, I don't want to just see boundaries and squiggly road lines. I want my mind to see mountains and rivers and forests and wide open spaces and the 2-mile stretch of blacktop in west Texas where I encountered thousands of tarantula's crossing the road en mass one evening, my car exploding their little hairy bodies as I drove onward in pursuit of the horizon. I want to look at that map and think that's where Mabel lived and that's where cute b-b-q girl lives.

So many places, so much road. Always another bend to go around, another rise to drive over. And so very little time.

Backroads

I'm starting to get that old "On The Road Again" calling. I love traveling the blue highways, the backroads of America, seeing things and meeting people the interstate travelers don't. For me, it's not about getting from Point A to Point B; it's about what's between Point A and Point B. I like to eat in places named "Aunt Bertha's" and "Bubba Jack's Almost World Famous Barbeque," served by Lucille who has been a waitress there for 32 years and calls me "Hon." I always leave Lucille a generous tip.

And I want to photograph the places and faces. The beauty that is America. The places that make you sit quietly and just be. Old faces that accompany the stories; lined with a lifetime of living and surviving. Young faces full of innocence and trust; children who have yet to learn life is sometimes tough, dogs sometimes bite, and not all grownups are good people. I'm not sure what, if anything, I'm looking for. Perhaps it's my own innocence, lost long before it should have been. And maybe I'm looking into the face of my own future, wondering if anyone will remember me and mourn my passing. As long as there are pictures of someone, they live.

Hell, maybe it's just something I love to do and there really is no hidden meaning; it's just a part of me and who I am. All that really matters is that call of the open road I have to answer. Guess it's time to figure out a Point B.