October 20, 2005
Today I travel through a small town on the White River where old men still sit on store front benches in the shade of faded awnings and wave to passers by. The old men are sitting in front of closed stores. Only a few remain open to business, maybe five or six on either side of four blocks of “downtown”. Mom and Pop department stores that once thrived before the days of the shopping malls with the big chain anchors. Maybe a Woolworth’s once satisfied the residents’ needs. Main Street is now, only a dim reflection of once vibrant life of countless similar little towns. But why, there isn’t a Wal-Mart within 30 miles of here? If only the benches and awnings could tell stories. They’d tell of droughts and tornados and floods, of good harvests and poor harvests, of births and deaths and weddings. The stories would describe the life-blood of rural communities whose residents were and still are close to one another.
I drive past old women in gliders rocking beneath pecan trees in their well kept front yards. I imagine them talking about the weather, the crops, the upcoming church social, or Betty’s new granddaughter, “She’s the spitting image of Betty”. They wave too. I wave back. People here actually use their front yards to socialize in. Not like the front yards in cities that are only used for cosmetic purposes. Curb appeal is much more important in cities.
It could once have been the town where Atticus Finch or Dilsey Gibson lived or where the Sheriff’s boy was named Opie. But now, the best that can be said about it is that it had seen better days. The Mayor runs the hardware store in town. Unless you have an appointment, you’re more apt to meet with him behind the counter at the store selling paint or nails to one of his constituents. Most all the mayors of the communities I’ll drive through today are part-time mayors. Some are local farmers. Some mayors are the wives of local farmers. Some work in a factory twenty miles away. Some are mayors because nobody else wants the job.
Later in the day I drive past houses sitting in a transition area between two different geographic regions. Their front porches sit in the fertile Delta where alternating crops of corn, cotton, rice, soy beans, milo, and winter wheat mark the passage of time. Their back porches lie at the foot of Crowley’s Ridge, a ribbon of wind blown loessial soils that once served as the divider between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. The Delta is dotted with grain bins and small farmhouses. Farm owners once lived in these houses. Now they’ve been occupied by farm hands because the owners live in the cities where there is more to do and nobody waves to one another. The Ridge is dotted with ponds and fruit orchards and small neat houses. The trees in the Delta have been cut down to make more space for tillable land while those on the Ridge have been spared for the most part. The only wildlife in the Delta lives in scattered wood lots that may or may not be connected to one another by grown over ditch banks. The ditches were dug to drain the swamps that once covered the Delta from the Gulf of Mexico to southern Missouri. Wildlife on the Ridge is varied and plentiful. The beauty in the Ridge is instantly evident. If you take the time to look closely, the Delta will unveil its beauty but you have to look for it. Its not slap your face, here I am beauty.
Everybody here waves. Big ol’ hand flappin’ howdy do waves. The kind that gets the flab on the bottom side of your upper arm wobblin’ back n forth. It’s impolite not to wave back, downright hurtful. In this part of the state people wave to one another; it’s just a fact of life. While driving, the finger wave (palm forward mind you) is common practice, especially from a hand grasping the top of a steering wheel in a pick-up truck. In other parts of the state you’ll only get the wave if you too are driving a pick-up truck. It can sometimes be a war of wavering waving wills when two vehicles approach one another from opposite directions, each driver waiting to see if the other will wave first. It’s a friendly form of rural jousting. Around here, it’s a contest to see who can wave first. Most of the people on this day’s drive wave regardless of the vehicle they’re driving. I’m driving a mid-size sedan and they wave to me. I wave back. I can tell when I’m getting closer to a city or town of any size. The closer I get the fewer waves I get. City folk aren’t big wavers. I’ll bet they don’t hug much either.
I drive past old women in gliders rocking beneath pecan trees in their well kept front yards. I imagine them talking about the weather, the crops, the upcoming church social, or Betty’s new granddaughter, “She’s the spitting image of Betty”. They wave too. I wave back. People here actually use their front yards to socialize in. Not like the front yards in cities that are only used for cosmetic purposes. Curb appeal is much more important in cities.
It could once have been the town where Atticus Finch or Dilsey Gibson lived or where the Sheriff’s boy was named Opie. But now, the best that can be said about it is that it had seen better days. The Mayor runs the hardware store in town. Unless you have an appointment, you’re more apt to meet with him behind the counter at the store selling paint or nails to one of his constituents. Most all the mayors of the communities I’ll drive through today are part-time mayors. Some are local farmers. Some mayors are the wives of local farmers. Some work in a factory twenty miles away. Some are mayors because nobody else wants the job.
Later in the day I drive past houses sitting in a transition area between two different geographic regions. Their front porches sit in the fertile Delta where alternating crops of corn, cotton, rice, soy beans, milo, and winter wheat mark the passage of time. Their back porches lie at the foot of Crowley’s Ridge, a ribbon of wind blown loessial soils that once served as the divider between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. The Delta is dotted with grain bins and small farmhouses. Farm owners once lived in these houses. Now they’ve been occupied by farm hands because the owners live in the cities where there is more to do and nobody waves to one another. The Ridge is dotted with ponds and fruit orchards and small neat houses. The trees in the Delta have been cut down to make more space for tillable land while those on the Ridge have been spared for the most part. The only wildlife in the Delta lives in scattered wood lots that may or may not be connected to one another by grown over ditch banks. The ditches were dug to drain the swamps that once covered the Delta from the Gulf of Mexico to southern Missouri. Wildlife on the Ridge is varied and plentiful. The beauty in the Ridge is instantly evident. If you take the time to look closely, the Delta will unveil its beauty but you have to look for it. Its not slap your face, here I am beauty.
Everybody here waves. Big ol’ hand flappin’ howdy do waves. The kind that gets the flab on the bottom side of your upper arm wobblin’ back n forth. It’s impolite not to wave back, downright hurtful. In this part of the state people wave to one another; it’s just a fact of life. While driving, the finger wave (palm forward mind you) is common practice, especially from a hand grasping the top of a steering wheel in a pick-up truck. In other parts of the state you’ll only get the wave if you too are driving a pick-up truck. It can sometimes be a war of wavering waving wills when two vehicles approach one another from opposite directions, each driver waiting to see if the other will wave first. It’s a friendly form of rural jousting. Around here, it’s a contest to see who can wave first. Most of the people on this day’s drive wave regardless of the vehicle they’re driving. I’m driving a mid-size sedan and they wave to me. I wave back. I can tell when I’m getting closer to a city or town of any size. The closer I get the fewer waves I get. City folk aren’t big wavers. I’ll bet they don’t hug much either.
posted by steve | 5:46 PM
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