with long blond hair, who could have been on the cover of
Cosmopolitan
, was in that seat with a pretty pink smile across her face. I didn’t notice the man behind the steering wheel until he said, “Hey, we saw you on the news the other night.”
Channel 8 interviewed us down in the Delta a couple of days before we got to Jonesboro. I replied, “How did we look?”
“Great! This is a wonderful thing you’re doing!”
Then he pulled something out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the woman. “Here take that. It’s just a little something to help you get down the road.”
She handed me a twenty dollar bill as the man said, “Buy the donkey a sandwich.”
I was thanking them when the traffic began to move. Their car was pulling away when the woman winked and said, “You look good in person, too. Good luck.”
We spent a week in Jonesboro at the home of my friend Bob Wallace. I met Bob through his daughter Ginna. She was on a team with me that represented Hot Springs at the 1999 National Poetry Slam in Chicago. Ginna was a minor then, and because some of the venues were bars, she had to have a parent or a guardian with her. So her father came along. And after that week in Chicago, I felt I’d found a new friend.
While in Jonesboro we put on a show at Uncommon Blends. It was a coffee house on Main Street that had opened only two weeks earlier–this was their first event. More than thirty people showed up, and half a dozenparticipated in the open mic session. Ginna was one of them. She kept a weekly reading going there for more than a year after that.
North of Jonesboro, we spent three days camped at Crowley’s Ridge State Park. The forecast was for temperatures near a hundred and five. Our shady campsite was near a spring fed lake, which was a great retreat from the heat. But there was no escaping the bugs. At night the mosquitoes were as bad as down on the Delta, and during the day the horseflies were horrendous. They didn’t bother Patricia and me very much, but poor Della. Some of those flies were almost as big as hummingbirds. Patricia called them “B-52s.” And bug spray didn’t faze them. Even when we sprayed it on their bodies, they’d just fly off, make a circle, come back and land on Della. Then the blood would start to ooze.
The horseflies were worse just before sunset. That’s when they’d swarm her, and the only way we could help was to kill them with our hands. Let the bastards land and smash them before they could bite. Patricia and I took turns smacking Della’s flies. And when your turn was up, the first thing you’d do was go to the hydrant and wash the blood off hands and forearms. We soon learned it was best to hit them with the center of our palms. That kept the blood from spraying up between our fingers and into our face.
Della quickly go got used to the nightly fly-smacking. She would stand completely still and not even flinch as we flailed away. She actually seemed to enjoy it. For Patricia and me, it turned into a contest to see who could kill the most in one smack. Patricia was the champion. She got three with one blow.
One evening, while I was smashing flies on Della, I couldn’t help but wonder about the horses out in the pastures around there. The ones who didn’t have someone to smack their flies. They must dread summer sunsets.
When I was a kid on vacation and riding in the back seat of our family car, every time we crossed a state line it felt like such a big deal. It seemed to methat we should have stopped at each one and commemorated the occasion. But I knew that idea wouldn’t fly. So I simply celebrated those state lines in my own mind.
The St. Francis River separates Arkansas from the Missouri Boot Heel. I was standing at the Arkansas end of the bridge when I started to feel that same old state line excitement. Patricia was excited too. “Honey, I can’t believe it. We’re finally leaving Arkansas.”
These may be the United States of America, but
Cosmopolitan
, was in that seat with a pretty pink smile across her face. I didn’t notice the man behind the steering wheel until he said, “Hey, we saw you on the news the other night.”
Channel 8 interviewed us down in the Delta a couple of days before we got to Jonesboro. I replied, “How did we look?”
“Great! This is a wonderful thing you’re doing!”
Then he pulled something out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the woman. “Here take that. It’s just a little something to help you get down the road.”
She handed me a twenty dollar bill as the man said, “Buy the donkey a sandwich.”
I was thanking them when the traffic began to move. Their car was pulling away when the woman winked and said, “You look good in person, too. Good luck.”
We spent a week in Jonesboro at the home of my friend Bob Wallace. I met Bob through his daughter Ginna. She was on a team with me that represented Hot Springs at the 1999 National Poetry Slam in Chicago. Ginna was a minor then, and because some of the venues were bars, she had to have a parent or a guardian with her. So her father came along. And after that week in Chicago, I felt I’d found a new friend.
While in Jonesboro we put on a show at Uncommon Blends. It was a coffee house on Main Street that had opened only two weeks earlier–this was their first event. More than thirty people showed up, and half a dozenparticipated in the open mic session. Ginna was one of them. She kept a weekly reading going there for more than a year after that.
North of Jonesboro, we spent three days camped at Crowley’s Ridge State Park. The forecast was for temperatures near a hundred and five. Our shady campsite was near a spring fed lake, which was a great retreat from the heat. But there was no escaping the bugs. At night the mosquitoes were as bad as down on the Delta, and during the day the horseflies were horrendous. They didn’t bother Patricia and me very much, but poor Della. Some of those flies were almost as big as hummingbirds. Patricia called them “B-52s.” And bug spray didn’t faze them. Even when we sprayed it on their bodies, they’d just fly off, make a circle, come back and land on Della. Then the blood would start to ooze.
The horseflies were worse just before sunset. That’s when they’d swarm her, and the only way we could help was to kill them with our hands. Let the bastards land and smash them before they could bite. Patricia and I took turns smacking Della’s flies. And when your turn was up, the first thing you’d do was go to the hydrant and wash the blood off hands and forearms. We soon learned it was best to hit them with the center of our palms. That kept the blood from spraying up between our fingers and into our face.
Della quickly go got used to the nightly fly-smacking. She would stand completely still and not even flinch as we flailed away. She actually seemed to enjoy it. For Patricia and me, it turned into a contest to see who could kill the most in one smack. Patricia was the champion. She got three with one blow.
One evening, while I was smashing flies on Della, I couldn’t help but wonder about the horses out in the pastures around there. The ones who didn’t have someone to smack their flies. They must dread summer sunsets.
When I was a kid on vacation and riding in the back seat of our family car, every time we crossed a state line it felt like such a big deal. It seemed to methat we should have stopped at each one and commemorated the occasion. But I knew that idea wouldn’t fly. So I simply celebrated those state lines in my own mind.
The St. Francis River separates Arkansas from the Missouri Boot Heel. I was standing at the Arkansas end of the bridge when I started to feel that same old state line excitement. Patricia was excited too. “Honey, I can’t believe it. We’re finally leaving Arkansas.”
These may be the United States of America, but
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