I’ve told bits of this story along the way, but here’s some more. When I left Texas for good (at 19, with my cat, in a U-haul) my first driving goal was to get to Little Rock, AR. I stopped for gas somewhere south of Little Rock, and it remains one of my Top 5 scary road trip memories. I could feel every hillbilly eye on me as I pulled in, and every eye followed me down the aisle to the snacks, and then to the pay phone to utter the following words to my sister, “My goal was to make it to Little Rock. I’m here and my new goal is to get the hell out of this state as soon as possible!” Back in the truck and I drove another four hours or so to Memphis.
Another of my Top 5 scary road trip memories was also in Arkansas. I was driving from New York to visit my family in Texas and again stopped somewhere for gas. While I ran to the bathroom, my friend started asking questions about the war (Gulf War) and a guy with a mouth dripping with chew replied, “Well, first they were just sending the niggers over there, but now I guess their sending whites, too.” And he stared us down long and hard. Once again, my number one goal was to get out of the state!
On this trip, however, nearly a decade later, Arkansas was unrecognizable. I entered from the Northwest and in Little Man's words, "Oh my!" Such is the beauty of the Ozarks! With all the money in Arkansas (plenty of WalMart millionaires about town), there was a definite Country Club feel that shocked me. Our destination was Ft. Smith to see my aunt, which I’d always imagined to be a small town similar to the previous places I’d visited.
Boy, was I wrong. Stopping for gas, I was stunned when three normal looking guys (one old and two young) got out of the way to hold the door open for me. I looked at them and said as I walked through, "Hellooo Arkansas!"
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