Elvis Slept Here - Part Uno

On January 19, 1953, like all American males were required to do at age 18, Elvis Presley registered for the U.S. Selective Service System. Soon he received Selective Service No. 40-86-35-16. He graduated high school and by 1956, he was a super-star. On January 4, 1957, he went for an Army pre-induction physical in Memphis and was declared 1A on January 8, his 22nd birthday.

On December 20, 1957, Elvis received his draft notice. He was to report for active duty in January, 1958, but he asked for and received an extension so he could complete filming "King Creole" which was already underway. Finally, on March 24, 1958, Elvis, accompanied by his parents, reported to the Memphis draft board at 6:35 AM. He was sworn in and, along with 12 other recruits, bused to Fort Chaffee in Arkansas for further processing.

Fort Chaffee, originally named Camp Chaffee, is located just outside the Ft. Smith, Arkansas city limits. Construction was begun in September, 1941 due to the need for additional training facilities for World War II. The first troops reported for duty there on December 7, the same day Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. The base has seen numerous uses during its life besides training men for combat - POW internment center (from 1942 to 1946, over 3,000 Germans were held here), a hospital for treating wounded soldiers, a psychiatric unit for treating mentally disturbed soldiers, and a refugee camp. At the end of the Vietnam War, 50,809 Vietnamese were processed through Ft. Chaffee, giving them medical screenings, matching them with sponsors, and arranging for their residence in the United States. On May 6, 1980, it became a Cuban refugee resettlement center after the Cuban government allowed American boats to pick up refugees at the port of Mariel. Three weeks later, a number of refugees rioted at Chaffee and burned two buildings. State troopers and tear gas were used to break up the crowd, and eighty-four Cubans were jailed. In two years, Fort Chaffee processed 25,390 Cuban refugees. It was again used  to house over 10,000 evacuees when Hurricane Katrina struck Louisiana in 2005.
On Sept. 27, 1997, the base was formally closed by the government and it now mostly serves as a 66,000 acre training facility for the Arkansas Air National Guard who uses the fort’s Razorback Range for target practice.

The base has also has been the setting for Hollywood movies and shows. In 1984, the movie A Soldier’s Story, starring Howard E. Rollins Jr. was shot at Fort Chaffee. In 1998, the Neil Simon movie Biloxi Blues, starring Matthew Broderick, was filmed there. The most recent visit from Hollywood was in 1995 for The Tuskegee Airmen with Laurence Fishburne and Cuba Gooding Jr. Due to the high number of deaths suffered by men during training, while being treated for combat wounds, while imprisoned on the base, and some suicides among the mentally ill patients, Fort Chaffee has long been rumored to be one of the most haunted places in America and was featured in episode 10 of the 4th season of Ghost Adventures on Friday, November 19, 2010.

Unfortunately, the base has seen its share of bad luck in the last few years. On January 29, 2008, high winds and a fire started by an electrical fault burned approximately 100 acres and damaged or destroyed 150 abandoned buildings. At 10:00 PM on August 3, 2011 another fire broke out in the 90 acre former medical complex. This was, according to the National Weather Service, the hottest day in FT. Chaffee history at 115 degrees. This fire destroyed the haunted hospital complex and nearly 120 other buildings. An investigation later determined the fire was started by a discarded cigarette in the old, wooden building from a group of Kentucky National Guard troops who were on the base for training. They admitted they had heard about the haunting at the hospital and had snuck over looking for ghosts.

A few of the buildings have been renovated and now house a few construction-type businesses, a chapter of the Vietnam Veterans of America and several museums. One building has even been turned into a commercial haunted house. It was one of the museums that I became interested in and was the reason for my visit.

The barbershop in Ft. Chaffee

Building 803 houses the Chaffee Barber Shop Museum. You are probably right about now wondering what the heck I'm rambling on about, why in the world would I be interested in a barber shop museum and does any of this have a point? Yes Virginia, actually, it does. You see, building 803 was the base barber shop and it is where Elvis Presley received "the haircut heard ‘round the world," the G.I. buzz cut which sheared off his famous locks of black hair and, according to John J. Mawn, the Fort Chaffee Information Officer, made Elvis resemble "a peeled onion."

I am not an Elvis fanatic. Actually, there are only 2 or 3 of his songs that I kind of like and I've only seen 3 of his movies. I took a girl I was trying to impress to see him in concert in Dallas a few years before he got fat and passed away. I wasn't all that impressed, but she was so mission accomplished. I went to Las Vegas a number of years ago totally unaware there was a huge Elvis impersonator contest going on. There were Elvis's (Elvi?) everywhere. You couldn't throw a stick without hitting an Elvis or two. I took a potty break in a Caesar's Palace restroom and peed standing next to Elvis. No, I didn't look. Recently, somehow, youngest daughter became an Elvis fan so, living just 3 hours from Memphis, we took a 3-day weekend and ran over to tour Graceland. I found it too was less than impressive. Still, when I found myself in Ft. Smith for a weekend, how could I not visit this place?


In the Varsity Club sports bar 
watching "THE" game.

I graduated from the University of Texas. Chip, my best buddy of over 40 years with whom I shared life and death adventures in the military, graduated from the University of Oklahoma. The schools are arch rivals to say the least. Somehow, our deep friendship continues to survive the annual football warfare and on the weekend of the UT/OU game, we meet at the Downtown Marriott in Ft. Smith, a good-sized town located half-way between our homes. We leave the wives and kids home for this, our annual "guy's weekend." He wears red, I wear burnt orange, we drink a couple of beers, we eat unhealthy food, we talk about manly stuff, we have been known to say a few mild cuss words, we harass each other unmercifully about our respective school's teams and we flirt with the waitresses (which never amounts to anything other than fun because they are in their 20's and want a big tip and we are, well, lets just say we're a bit older).  And on Sunday, we give each other a manly hug with the requisite pats on the back, proclaim how much fun we've had, and a bit wistfully, go back to our respective homes and family and jobs.

There we were in Ft. Smith, the game was over in the early afternoon, it was a beautiful, warm autumn day, Chip was cool to go exploring, so off we went to Ft. Chaffee. At least we tried to. I plugged it into my GPS and it informed me no Fort Chaffee found. I spelled it different. Nope. We had been driving around for a while when we saw an exit sign for Hwy 22. Hey, that leads back downtown by our hotel so we took it. I couldn't believe a 66,000 acre military base would not be on the GPS so I pulled off the road and we got out my Roads of Arkansas map book and looked it up. Ft. Chaffee was just a few miles down Hwy 22 the other way. Giving the map to Chip for navigation purposes, we turned around and down the road we went. We soon came up on a city limit sign indicating we were entering Barling. I entered Ft. Chaffee in the city of Barling in the GPS. It came up immediately. So if you go looking for it, the dang thing is in Barling, a suburb of Ft. Smith, not Ft. Smith itself!
 

After a few stop-and-go miles down Hwy 22 we saw Ft. Chaffee signs. We entered the grounds and found ourselves in a historical place from another time. We found what we were looking for and so much more.

(Continued in Part Deaux)
 

Enjoy What You Have

All of us worry that we’re missing out on things. We work longer, we do more, we cram more into our daily lives because we don’t want to miss out. We spend our lives racing from one thing to another because we must be productive; we must feel like we've accomplished something.  And soon, we forget that life itself is about experiencing the journey, not racing to the finish.

The truth is, we're going to miss out no matter what we do. It’s inevitable. Nobody can do or try everything in the world. If our lives were twice as long, we still could not see every town and city and landmark, read every book that sounds interesting or hike every trail. We will always miss out. The fact is, if you always worry about what you are missing, you will miss out on what you already have.

We need to understand and fight this compulsion to be busy, to do as much as possible. We don't really need to do more, we need to enjoy more what we do. Don’t pack your vacation with plans to see every single highlight of the place you’re visiting; take your time, walk around, meet and talk to people, enjoy what you find. 

You don't have to travel far to see interesting things. A good friend of mine lived in Colorado for a number of years. People from all over the country, myself included, take their vacations from work, spend their money and travel to see the beauty of Colorado. When I asked my friend what it's like to live in such beauty, he said he usually doesn't stop to think about it or even notice it. When you contemplate that for a few seconds, that's pretty sad, but we all do it.

Nobody wants to race to the finish of their life. We all have only so long to live and then we cease in this life and go on to the next phase. Before we shuffle off though, let's try to enjoy the life we have right now.

Monks In Arkansas!



One of the reasons I love road trips to places I've never been is because you never know what you will run across. Imagine if you will, cruising down SH-22, a little 2-lane back road in very rural Arkansas when you round a bend and instead of cows grazing in the fields or the rows and rows of crops you've gotten used to viewing, you see this?

I imagine your reaction would be pretty much the same as mine - "What the heck is that?" So of course I had to take the next right turn and drive up to determine just what I had stumbled across. Much to my amazement, I had found an abbey; an abbey with monks and a young men's academy. I've only been in Arkansas for a relatively short period of time ("relative" being the operative word as I've been here almost 7 years, but Arkansans still consider me to be an outsider since my grandparents aren't buried here) and there's a lot about Arkansas I don't know, but monks in Arkansas? Who woulda thunk it?

The monks of Subiaco Abbey are Benedictines and the abbey has been located a few miles down the road from Paris, Arkansas since the 1870's. Over the years, the town of Subiaco has grown up around it. Where did the name "Subiaco" come from? Subiaco, Italy of course, where Saint Benedict lived as a hermit and where he threw himself into a thorny rose bush to dispel his sinful thoughts of the flesh.

The Subiaco Academy began as a school for young men about 1890 and has evolved into the present day college-prep boarding school for young men from the 7th - 12th grades. They have a pretty good tennis team; football, not so much.


The abbey is supported through donations, fund raisers, through various charities and the Catholic church. They also sell "Abbey Brittle" (tins of peanut brittle) and "Monk Sauce" (red or green chili sauce). Unfortunately, I was there on a Saturday and the on-site shop is not open on weekends. I would have bought several of each just for the cool labels!


It was an interesting place for sure. Everything was immaculately clean, the grass mowed, no dead limbs on the ground from the many wonderful shade-giving trees, very peaceful and everyone was very friendly and helpful. The monk-life is not for me, that's for sure, but you know, I can see the appeal.


Frontier Days

Paris, AR, gateway to Mt. Magazine.

If a festival has been held for 32 years, it must be a pretty good one. That's a good corollary to follow when one must choose between multiple festivals occurring on the same day. With the cooler weather of fall upon us, there are literally dozens of festivals and goings-on every weekend for the next 3 months so I had to choose and that's how I found myself in Paris last weekend. No, not THAT Paris, not even Paris, Texas.  Paris, Arkansas, where the 32nd annual Frontier Days Festival was being held. "Where Yesterday Meets Today For A Day."

With a 5K race, parade, antique car show, helicopter rides, horse & buggy rides, turtle race, hay bale toss, log sawing contest, nail driving contest, and the Miss Mt. Magazine Pageant, it sounded likely to be a full day of fun, food, and crafts. There's supposed to even be an 1870s hangin’ - something for everyone! The one thing they didn't have was an agenda with the times of the events listed. I understand that festivals can't stay strictly to schedule for a number of reasons, but if you advertise contests and events, then let visitors know at least the approximate times and locations where these things will take place! Publish them on your website if you have one, list them on a sign at the festival grounds or at the very least, announce them in between the performing bands and local talent. Sadly, I didn't get to see the hay bale toss or the log sawing - I have no idea whether I got there too late or left too early. I did see the nail driving contest, but only because I happened to be walking by the little corner of the grounds where they had it at the time they were having it. There were no announcements or anything and very few on-lookers. I can only assume the 5 or 6 participants knew what time to show up because they were told when they signed up. I also did not see the hangin'. Darn, I was looking forward to seeing a ne'er do well receive his just deserts!

This daddy/daughter duo were really good!

I did get to see the turtle race. Well, I saw part of the turtle race. I came upon it after it had started, watched for a while, and left before it was over. I'm sure the owner of the winning turtle is very proud of their creature. Laying claim to having the fastest turtle in the area will get a kid envious stares from his classmates, I'm sure, and maybe even help with getting that first kiss from a girl. But I'm here to tell you, watching turtles run is right up there with watching grass grow or paint dry in the excitement category. Run, turtle, run! I probably should have stayed for what I'm sure was an exciting, close finish. Speedy beats Lightning by a terrapin nose!

OK, so there were a couple of negatives, but don't let those minor things keep you away because this was actually one of the larger and better festivals. The car show was excellent. A good number of vendors offering everything from fishing rods to pet clothes to jars of comb honey made for interesting browsing. The local Boy Scouts troop was selling cold drinks and home-made chili ( having just had lunch shortly before I found the Boy Scout's tent, I didn't partake, but it sure looked yummy). Located next to the jump houses for the kids were several food vendors selling cotton candy, turkey legs, and other usual festival foods.

Of personal interest and something that made me happy to see was the presence of the local chapter of Vietnam Veterans of America. I passed some time happily conversing with my fellow vets and was happy to make a donation for the memorial they are trying to fund.

Pioneer woman talking on her pioneer iPhone.

The "people watching" was fun with a number of folks dressed as Indians, frontier men and wives in their pioneer finest. For a small donation to the Miner's Memorial Fund, you could take a 10 minute horse & buggy ride around town and for $30 per person, you could take a tour of the area via helicopter. My family and I chose the horse & buggy.

The Momma Woman and Youngest-Daughter climbed in the back seat of the buggy, which left the front seat next to the driver for me. The driver was a nice guy, older, weather-beaten and grizzled looking with a 3-day growth of beard. He had candy for the little kids who sometimes were very interested in, but a bit afraid of the horse. He didn't give a running commentary of how old the courthouse is or who lives in that house or what that building used to house. He talked about the weather, he talked about his horse, and he talked about the festival. I asked, but no, he didn't know when the hanging was going to be either. I felt sympathy for the horse. He was obviously old - swayback, dull, bored eyes and his brown coat full of gray. I'm no horse expert, but it looked to me like he was on his last legs. Pulling a buggy full of people was his retirement, his reward for a life of hard work.

A few minutes into the ride, we pulled up behind a car stopped at a red light. The light turned green, the car drove on, but the horse didn't. The driver encouraged him with a gentle flick of the reins and that poor old nag slowly started walking. Cars were behind us and at this pace we might not even make it across the street before the light turned red again so the driver gave more encouragement with a more insistent flick of the reins. That sweet, obedient animal started walking faster, and whether just naturally or by choice, gave vent to his displeasure at having to move a little quicker. And when I say vent, that's what I mean. He did his part adding to greenhouse gases. Loudly. At first, I chuckled, just barely containing a guffaw at something every person in the world finds funny. But then, the odor wafted back to the front seat. My smile quickly evaporated, much quicker than the smell did. This one was evidently a bit much even for the old cowboy driving us who, no doubt, had been on the receiving end of his share of horse poots, as he managed to keep a straight face, but did give a couple of quick shakes of his head. Shake it off, cowboy, shake it off! The air slowly returned to breathable, but my sympathies for that damn horse were gone for good.

My family and I definitely had a good time. The horse poot in the face incident wasn't something on my bucket list, but hey, it was a first for me so there's another item I can now check off of my "been there, done that" list. And you know what? Actually, I have to admit, the turtle race was pretty fun!

There was an excellent car show!

The trailer for this combo is an old
Coke ice chest.

Great paint job!

Plenty of "Antique" stores to browse through.

Great Arkansas Pig Out

The sign may have fallen a bit, but it still
marks the place!

In 1991, a group of good people living in Morrilton determined their little town had a problem. Many small towns in Arkansas have festivals, but Morrilton didn't. Figuring the town was in need of something that would bring the people together for a time and just be good clean family fun, an idea was born and when the 2nd weekend of August came around, the 1st Great Arkansas Pig Out was held.

The festival, with the effort and enthusiasm of the volunteers and sponsors was a great success. There were all kinds of booths by vendors offering items from arts and crafts to face painting to the main thing people think of when they think of Pig Out - food. There was food enough to feed thousands. There was barbecue, homemade ice cream, gumbo, watermelon, sausage on a stick, hamburgers, lemonade, and shrimp. Almost anything a person wanted could be found along the wall of the old high school gymnasium and in the adjoining city park. There was a hot dog eating contest and watermelon eating contest. The Great Arkansas Pig Out lived up to its name. Additionally, there were games and live entertainment to raise the level of fun even more. And what would a festival with a pig as its mascot be without a muddy, slippery Pig Chase for the kids? With all this fun, food, entertainment and the thousands that came to participate, the Great Arkansas Pig Out had indeed been a huge success and people planned for it to return the next year.

Not all of the entertainers will be stars, but give
them credit for having the guts to get up in front
of an audience and perform.

With such an oinking success on their hands, the next year the Pig Out was extended to a three day festival. The same traditions of food, fun, and family were and still are the main focus of the Pig Out. This same pattern carried on for the next 11 years. As the festival grew, so did the quality of the entertainment. From Jerry Reed, Justin Moore, Aaron Tippin, and the Randy Rogers Band, the Pig Out Festival has continually provided free concerts of up-and-coming stars of the country music world. In 1998, the Great Arkansas Pig Out even went international when the BBC sent a crew over to film the goings-on.

Mechanical Bull riding is always fun to watch!

Along with one of the largest car shows held in Arkansas, the Pig Out has also got sports covered. Events now include a tennis tournament, 5k run, the Pig Dig (a co-ed volleyball tournament), The Tour-de-Oink (a 40 mile long bike race), and a Horseshoe Tournament. However, the most entertaining event is the Pig Chase. What could be more clean fun for adults than watching a herd of kids chase after a pig in a very large pile of mud?

Kids always love bounce houses.

Since August in Arkansas isn't exactly the most comfortable place to be outside for long, the festival has changed dates several times. This year it was held on Sept 30 and Oct 1 and if the weather this time is any indication, I think they've found their timing and should keep it right there. A clear, blue sky with a high temperature of 75 and a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees which provided plenty of shade made the day simply perfect on the weather front.  In my book, this wasn't the absolute number 1 fun festival I've ever been to, but I've certainly been to worse and for a small town festival run entirely by volunteers, it was right nice!

Nice food vendor and arts & crafts strip

with wonderful shade!

Great car show.

Yeah, its got a Hemi.

In Arkansas, you make do with what ya have.

Piece Of Arkansas In Washington

The Washington Monument in Washington, D.C., when it was completed in 1888, was the tallest structure in the world at just over 555 feet 5 1/8 inches tall. It lost that title to the Eiffel Tower the very next year. It is still the world's tallest stone structure, the tallest obelisk, and taller than any other structure in D.C. It's been in the news lately due to the damage it suffered during the 5.8 magnitude earthquake that hit the Washington area on August 23, 2011.

The monument was designed by Robert Mills and construction started in 1848. However, it was not completed until 1884, 30 years after his death. If you look close, you can see a slight difference in color of the marble starting at about 150 feet up because construction was stopped for a number of years due to the Civil War and a lack of funds.

While short on funds, somebody unknown to history, came up with the wonderful idea of soliciting blocks of marble from the different states and other sources. In all, 188 stones were shipped from around the world and used in building the monument. One state that contributed a large block was Arkansas. The block was used inside the monument and it can still be seen and easily recognized as you go up the stairs. How do you recognize it? Well, it has "Arkansas" carved in big, block letters on it!

Stone marker on the hill marks the spot.

A stone mason named Peter Beller moved to Arkansas from Alabama in 1833. In 1834,he and three brothers with the last name of Harp dug a 4' X 3' X 2' hunk of marble out of a hill beside Arkansas Highway 7. The stone was hauled on a sledge by a team of twenty oxen sixty miles across the Ozark and Boston Mountains to the Arkansas River. It was sent by barge to New Orleans, then by sail to the Potomac Basin and on to the monument.

Around 1840, Peter acquired the land  and built a mill at the site. Although never officially named, Beller's Mill prospered and grew until the civil war, when the men were pressed into service and their families fled to larger towns to escape attacks by bushwhackers, scalawags and other assorted ne'er do wells.

Inscription on the marker.

In 1870 a man named Willcockson set up another mill there, and a town grew which bore his name. Mineral waters and healing springs contributed to the town's prosperity. Advances in medicine in the 20th century reduced the flow of visitors, and the town faded. Albert Raney and Sons bought the land, changed the town's name to Marble Falls, and diverted the cold mountain spring water into a trout hatchery, which they operated for over 20 years. In the late 1960's, a group of Harrison businessmen bought the trout farm and built an amusement park around it. The theme park was based on characters and locations invented and popularized by Al Capp in his daily comic strip "Li'l Abner." To promote the park, the name of the town was changed again, to "Dogpatch."

If you didn't know, you would never know 
as you drive by.

So where exactly did this Washington Monument chunk of marble come from? Right across the road from the now closed Dogpatch Amusement Park. Other than a small stone marker with a plaque on it, the hill looks just like all the other hills in this area. In fact, if you don't stop to see the marker, you'll drive right past and never know that a piece of this hill is part of an American icon.




Me and My Blog

The Beating Of My Heart

For a couple of weeks, I hadn't been feeling so well. Not the usual cold or sinus troubles or the flu or the I hate my job so I've got the blah's feeling. It was more of a general "somethings not right, but I'm not sure what it is" feeling. Then I woke up a couple of times in the night and the sides of my hands and feet would be asleep, all tingly pins & needles until I flexed them and got the blood flowing again. In my case, that's not a good sign at all. I have a bad ticker and have already been to the other side and back so it's best I not push my luck. Then the other evening I was doing a little power walking exercise and I felt a bit of pain in my chest and my left arm, a pain that's all too familiar. Time to get my butt to the doc. And the doc said it's time to get my butt to the hospital for a coronary angiogram to figure out what's wrong.

Turn's out, my body had been busy growing scar tissue over one of the stents I have which had started clogging it up. The doc did a roto-rooter job and then inserted another stent inside the original two and opened it up wider. This story isn't about that though. Well, not exactly. It's about Conway Regional Hospital and my "interesting" experience while spending two days in this fine health care institution.

Check-in was quick, easy, and except for the $450 upfront co-pay I had to put on my credit card right then and there, not an issue. I was escorted to a prep room where I lay on a bed for a while looking at the lady directly across the aisle looking back at me. A pretty nurse brought me one of those "Hey, look at my naked butt" gowns and said to take off everything but my socks. I got an armband with my name and other information banded around my wrist and then another nurse came in and stuck me with an IV in the back of my hand. That one hurt. A really nice guy came by and put a bunch of cold, circular  electrodes on and around my chest and ran two EKG tests, took my blood pressure, heart rate, and temp. In comes another nurse to take  some blood. Saying my armband was in the way, she ripped it off, stuck another needle in me and walked off with 2 vials of blood. Don't ask my why she couldn't use the IV line that I was already stuck with. Maybe she just needed needle practice and I was handy.

For those who don't know, an angiogram is where a thin catheter line is inserted into a vein in your groin area and snaked up through the vein into your heart. And that means no hair at the point where they cut into you. After receiving a replacement armband, an aspirin and a Valium, the prettiest nurse yet came at me with a razor in her hand. Thankfully, the Valium  was kicking in as she gently performed her assigned duty or an embarrassing situation may have come up.

After being wheeled into an operating room, I told the nurses not to be peeking under my gown while I was out and then I woke up in the recovery room. As they wheeled me into room 322, I had enough sense about me to realize my right wrist hurt and there was a plastic band tightly around it. Asking the nurse about it, I found out that instead of going in through the groin, they had done the procedure in the new manner of cutting a hole and going in through the right wrist. So this left me with the rather interesting dilemma for no good reason of being half bald in a very personal area. Do I shave the rest or just run around half-n-half for a while?

The nurses left after telling me if I needed anything to just push the little call button. The wife left to go pick up Youngest-daughter and I was left to amuse myself for a while raising and lowering the bed. While pushing myself into a sitting position, I accidentally bent my right wrist back and it started bleeding. I'm taking a blood thinner so it's not really dangerous, but when I bleed, it doesn't stop right away. And it didn't this time either. I pushed the call button and watched the blood start rolling down my arm. I pushed the button again and again and soon the blood had covered my arm and was dripping on my gown and on my blanket. Twice I saw a nurse walk by my room and I called out to them, but they didn't stop. Eventually my nurse stuck her head in the door, saw me holding up my bloody arm and said, "Oh my God!" After cleaning it off and rearranging that funky plastic bandage on my wrist, she found that the call button had not been hooked up. Good thing I was just bleeding out and it wasn't a real emergency or anything.

By now it was almost 7:00 and all I'd had to eat all day was a small bowl of Cheerios. Evidently somebody forgot to tell the kitchen I would be hanging around for the night. My dear, wonderful wife made a Quiznos run and brought me back a sandwich. I had just finished wolfing it down when my night nurse brought in a food tray. She said someone hadn't entered me in the computer so she had them make one up for me. I appreciated it so much that I ate most of that also. By 8:30, wife and daughter had left and by 9:00 I was sound asleep. Thankfully, my night nurse woke me up at 10:00 to tell me she would be my night nurse and if I needed anything, just ring the call button.

I don't know exactly what time it was; dark-time-thirty for sure, but I was once again sound asleep when I became aware of a claw that had ahold of my foot and was dragging me off the bed! Before I became fully awake, I realized it was the monster that lives under all beds and comes out only in the night and it had me by the foot, pulling me down into it's dark, stinking lair to suck out my blood and do all kinds of horrible, unspeakable monstery things to me! Then the monster asked me in a soft female voice if I was OK and I slowly realized it was just my night nurse, Vicky, shaking my foot to make sure I wasn't dead or anything. Three more times during the night, the ever vigilant Vicky woke me to take my blood pressure and make sure I didn't die on her watch. At 7:00 I woke up again realizing that room 322 is directly across the hall from the utility closet and the door slams every time one of the cleaning crew  goes in or out. I gave up trying to sleep, turned on Good Morning America and waited for breakfast.

At 9:30, I asked Tee, my new day nurse, what time breakfast was served. 8:30 was her answer. I kindly pointed out it was 9:30 and I hadn't gotten mine. The wife arrived and offered to get me some breakfast, but not wanting to repeat the 2 suppers scene of the night before, I just asked her for coffee. Conway Regional Hospital's outpatient waiting room coffee sucks. Thankfully it's free.  At 10:00, Tee brought me a breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, dry toast, coffee and milk. Tee said I hadn't been entered into the computer so the kitchen didn't know to make me a tray. She had them make up an extra one for me.

A nice cleaning lady came in and while watching her give the room a quick wipe down and mopping, I noticed the bottom area of several of the walls. They looked like a thousand things on rollers had knocked into them, worn off all paint and gouged out chunks. It certainly didn't look clean or sanitary. I had noticed a couple of drips of what looked like cheese sauce on the floor and some corn flakes laying up against the walls so I hadn't been exactly impressed with the cleanliness anyway, but when she left and the dripped cheese sauce and corn flakes were still on the floor, I was a bit concerned. I expect hotel rooms to be clean, but you NEED hospital rooms to be clean. If you are in the hospital, you've got enough problems of your own - you don't need to be catching someone else's'!

After she left, I had occasion to use the restroom. They had pumped me full of liquids the afternoon before to flush out the dye used in the angiogram so I had used the room several times the night before, but this was the first time I had turned on the light and really looked around. I noticed a couple more corn flakes on the floor (corn flakes in the bathroom?), but what I saw in the shower really upset me. Hair. Lots of hair. Pubic hair. And it wasn't mine! Not any of what was left of mine anyway. There were pubes on the floor and much to my amazement, even on the wall about waist height. What the hell was this? Rocket pubes! I mean, how does a pube get there? If my pubes were shooting off like rockets and my crotch was going bald, I would definitely know there was something seriously wrong and I would immediately get myself to a doctor. And then it dawned on me, rocket pube dude WAS in the hospital! Whatever they had, I sure didn't want. When Tee came back later to get my breakfast tray, I asked her to go look in the shower. She was very apologetic and said she would let housekeeping know. When I told her they had already cleaned, she said she would call the head of housekeeping.  True to her word, it was only a few minutes later that the same cleaning lady came back and did a thorough job in the shower and got the corn flakes off the bathroom floor. Later on, the Director of Housekeeping stopped by, apologized, kind of made a few excuses, but did say he would get to the bottom of this and the next time I'm there, it would be different. Now that was real comforting.

The wife had called my doctor's office about 10:00 that morning and was told the doc was on the floor making his rounds already and he should be with me shortly. Of course I had to wait to see him before I could check out. So I waited. And waited. And low and behold, I was served lunch right on time. Evidently, now that I was about to be released, I was in the kitchen's computer. I read a book on my iPad. I watched episode after episode of the Law & Order SUV marathon on TV. At 2:55, the wife called the doctor's office again to see if he had forgotten about me and was told he now wouldn't be around until about 6:00.  At 3:00, the good wife made a coffee run - to a coffee shop, not that swill in the waiting room and at exactly 3:02, my doctor walked in my room. Sure glad his office keeps up with him so good. He told me everything he had done to me. Told me to be on bed rest for 3 or 4 days. And then he told me that if the same thing happened again, the next time would require open heart surgery. Now there's something to look forward to. After that bit of good news, he told me I could go home.

I called my wife to come back quick, the plastic band was cut off my wrist and a pressure bandage put on in it's place, the needles were pulled out of me, the circular electrodes were unhooked and peeled off, and I swapped my drafty, embarrassing gown for pants and shirt. I was home in time to meet Youngest-daughter as she got off the bus from school. I'm good to go again and her smile when she saw me and the way she ran into my arms made me smile all over. It was good to be home again.
 

Loafer's Glory

On the way from somewhere to somewhere else, I found this sign on the side of the road and thought, "Now that's my kind of church!"

If you must know, the town where this is located is named Fallsville, deep in the Buffalo River country of the Ozarks. The first name of the little town of Fallsville was Loafer's Glory, named such because it was a stopping place for men going down to the river bottoms to pick cotton. This area is even today very rural and peopled by individuals who are descendants of the southern Appalachians who settled here as early as 1825. The rugged terrain, few roads and no electricity until the late 1930's kept the people isolated. They learned to make what they needed and most of those old skills have survived. Oak furniture, handcrafted baskets, and pieced quilts were some of the homemade things every cabin had and which Ozark artisans still craft today.

The facts for the origin of the name may be a bit boring or anti-climatic, but it's still a cool name. If I ever get the little retirement cabin I want deep in the wooded mountains somewhere with a rocking chair on the front porch and a good dog to lay down beside me as I put miles on the rocker, I do believe I'll steal the name Loafer's Glory and carve it into a sign to hang over the front door. And that will be that.

What A Rush!

An honest to goodness true ghost town has two qualities; the existence of structures and no people. There are a number of almost ghost towns, close to ghost towns, used to be ghost towns, and fake ghost towns, but Marion county Arkansas claims the only true ghost town between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains. Rush, a once prosperous zinc mining town obtained true ghost town status over 40 years ago when the last person moved away and abandoned their home in the late 1960's. In 1972, the National Park Service obtained Rush when it was included in lands acquired for the creation of the Buffalo River National Park System.

During the early 1880's, prospectors came to the Rush area searching for silver mines they heard about from Indian legends. Soon, they found shiny metallic flakes in the rocks. Thinking they had struck silver, news of the discovery quickly got out and the rush was on to Rush.

The rock smelter built in 1886.

In a short period of time, the area was home to numerous mines with names like White Eagle, Monte Cristo, Red Cloud, Beula, Edith, and the largest, Morning Star. In late 1886, a rock smelter was built to extract the silver, but during a test run in January, 1887, green zinc oxide fumes were emitted and the silver failed to collect in the molds. With no silver being found, the men who owned the land, built the smelter and owned the Morning Star mine sold their holdings for a fraction of what they had paid and left town. Then someone figured out that what the men had thought was silver was actually zinc, a valuable mineral which has many uses including being alloyed with copper to produce brass. The new owners of the Morning Star became wealthy and in 1892, a 13,000 pound zinc nugget they found was exhibited and won blue ribbons at the Chicago World's Fair.

General store built in 1891 remained in 
business until 1956.

When World War 1 began, with the demand for brass and copper shell casings, the price for zinc shot up 300%, the mines expanded and more people moved to Rush. In 1916, the town was incorporated with a population of over 5,000. The Taylor-Medley General Store, built in 1891 by Bill Taylor to serve the community, became the location of the post office and served as the hub of the community where you could buy groceries, receive and send letters and packages, and sit a spell on the large, covered front porch and visit. You could also get married here because the store owner was, in addition to shop keeper and post master, also the justice of the peace.

Front porch of the store where people met 
and did business.

With the end of WW1, the zinc market cratered. The mines began shutting down and the residents began moving away. Eventually even the Morning Star mine closed and that spelled the eventual death of Rush. The store, then operated by Lee Medley, was the last business to close it's doors in 1956. The last human holdout moved away sometime in the late 1960's and Rush began its life as a ghost town.

Row of homes built in the early 1900's.

Getting to Rush is pretty easy as long as you don't miss the turn. Located in a very rural area 5 miles off of Arkansas 14 just east of Caney, there is but one little sign indicating where you should turn off of AR-14 and it is pretty easy to miss. The 2-lane (more like 1 1/2 lane) road is blacktop most of the way, but the last mile or so is dirt so you might think twice before going if it has rained recently.

While there, I found it to be a really interesting place; way off the beaten path, quiet, full of history. The houses have a fence along the road in front of them, but more symbolic than functional, it's easy enough to get around it. Hopefully it will do enough of a job to keep out any vandals who manage to find the place. After walking around for over an hour with no other person to bother me, I took a water break and while sitting on a rock next to my truck, a butterfly landed on my shoulder. I slowly turned my head and looked at it looking at me. I've heard it's good luck so I didn't want to disturb it. It finally flew off, but only went down around my feet to some little bitty flowers so I took a picture of it before it went on its merry way. A few minutes later I hoped in the pickup to leave and as I drove down the dirt road a ways, I rounded a curve and a baby deer was standing in the middle of the road. I stopped and the mamma deer immediately jumped out of the bushes and both of them ran across and into the bushes and trees on the other side. I drove slowly and had to keep a sharp eye to find them hidden away. When I did, I stopped again and had just enough time to take a picture before mamma deer protectively put herself between me and her baby. I quietly told her, "It's ok. I'm not going to hurt your baby" and let the pickup idle on down the road a ways. By the time I turned around, they were gone.

Home to a family at one time.  I wonder 
what became of them.

My lucky butterfly

Look close and you will find a mamma deer
 and her doe.

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.