AN ARKANSAN DID SOMETHING AND THERE'S A PARTY

"An Arkansan did something and there's a party so be at the Breckenridge...."

That was the message on my voicemail. A call to action: Put on a pretty dress, a big-ass smile and come on down to the Breckenridge cuz some Arkansan I can’t remember his name but he made a movie and it’s a big deal and there’s a party and you just never know who’s gonna be there. Slam. Click. Get that dress over your bleached-blond head and move it, girl.

Three years ago, I would have just held the phone out from my face, stared at it, said, “Whatever,” poured yet another glass of wine and turned on Lifetime to see who murdered whom and how they figured it out, smoked a half pack of cigarettes, forgot to eat dinner, gone to bed and awakened in the morning wondering what to do with my day.

Well, no more. I’m in the South, by golly. I ain’t in California no more, either. Why, you can’t swing a dead cat around here without getting invited to do something even if it’s something you never heard of and can’t pronounce it right anyway.

It won’t be a mystery for long why I left the paradise of over-priced real estate and settled my bony ass down in the most incredible, fabulous town in the whole United States of America and plan to die here and have my ashes pitched over the Arkansas River, Dillard’s, the Flyin’ Fish, and a whole host of my other favorite places I’m not telling about because it might give people the creeps knowing there’s a dead woman’s ashes sprinkled around and not only that but she’s a Yankee. Apologies to Dillard’s and the Flyin’ Fish but I had to start somewhere.

They said I’d be back in six weeks. Three years later, I am still here, feet cemented to The Rock. They still don’t get it but that’s okay. I get it and that’s the whole point. Here’s what my California friends said when I told them I was moving to Arkansas:

“They have no teeth there.”

“They all drive pickups with gun racks and they really do shoot people.”

“What the f@^$%???”

“They don’t have Best Foods mayo. Only Hellman’s. You can’t eat Hellman’s.”

“You’re just in love with Bill Clinton.”

And these are educated, well-traveled people? It’s okay; they just haven’t been here yet and besides, Jesus loves them, too.

Well, I never made it to the Breckenridge but I don’t remember why. Maybe I was still in shock over my recent trip to Kroger’s. Unless you’ve been to the San Francisco Bay Area, you just can’t get it how rude people can be in a place that’s supposed to be so laid back and friendly. If you nod and say hello to a stranger on the street, they either dial 9-1-1 on their cell phone or look straight through you as if you were standing there holding a “Watchtower” magazine with a beseeching look in your eyes. So, being in a Kroger’s and having people apologizing to me for getting in my way when I was the one who accidentally bashed their ankles
in with my grocery cart, well, that was a true treat for me. You’ll understand why I was so surprised at the reaction I got from the checker when I asked where to find the canned pumpkin.

She was about my age (I ain’t giving numbers but let me tell you I am as well-seasoned as a Sonny Williams steak). And it was obvious her life had been a lot harder than mine. She was tall and lizard-thin with graying hair that looked like it had been beaten senseless by a hair dryer. Through her rimless glasses peered these tiny, close-set blue eyes that had not seen a whole lot of beauty. They reflected many a whoopin’, harsh words at too young an age, a lot of loss and the kind of look you get in your eyes if you’ve ever been kicked out of a pickup truck in a Motel 6 parking lot. Yes, it was all staring at me and waiting for my next dumbass question.

Hands on her precariously pitched-to-the-left hips, she snapped, “Check the bakin’ aisle.”

“The bacon aisle? You have a whole aisle for bacon?” My head was spinning. Well, this is Razorback Nation…Arkansas…pork rinds…Hogs…they take pork that seriously here?

It was a stand-off. We stared at each other for a full 30 seconds, stupefied at each others’ mental vacancies.

“C’mon,” she snarled, shaking her head and leading the way for this alien with the funny accent that came from God only knows where.

As we passed the flour, the sugar, the nuts and the oil, it started to come clear.

“Oh, I am so sorry; you must have said the baking aisle! I was looking at the canned fruit and vegetable aisle.”

“Of course I said the bakin’ aisle. You bakin’ a pumpkin pah, ain’t ya?”

“Well, actually, I was going to make soup.”

“SOUP?” Lord God Almighty. What next? She must be some kind of Commie,” disgusted and muttering as if I weren’t even there anymore.

On the drive home, I had to remind myself why I came here. Get my elevator speech ready. But I didn’t need it, not really, because it all came straight to mind and straight from the heart. Where can I go to find all in one place?
Natural beauty?
A state capitol but not a major metropolitan area?
Good quality of life?
Lack of congestion?
Affordable housing?
Major university?
Good medical services?
Lots of good democrats?
Cha-ching! Little Rock, AR!


Now, don’t all you reepubs stop reading here because I outed myself as a yellow dog democrat. Why, one of my best friends is as republican as they get, works for the RNC, is an officer for the Young Reepubs, owns a Gluck and shoots as straight from the shoulder as she does from the mouth. This woman has a permanent reservation on my living room sofa and in my heart. And then there are all my coworkers and we love each other to shreds. Love them so much I didn’t even gloat when the election turned in my favor. Dint even want to.

My friends still didn’t get it when I tried to explain Arkansas to them because even I didn’t know what was waitin’ on me down here. Even with all those rational reasons tucked under my belt, there was still something else calling me here.
“But you live in Sonoma for God’s sake. Do you know how many people the world over would sell their children for the chance to live in the California wine country and to live the life you live?”

“No, how many?”

“Dunno. But it must be a lot. Look at all the tourists. Just look.”

I looked. That was part of the problem. The Sonoma Valley, in 1999, unlike the Napa Valley, was still pastoral, easy and its conscience guided by simple agrarian rules: Keep your word. Do business right. Be friendly. Respect nature. It was a lot like the South in many ways. That was the draw. The Napa Valley is over-marketed and snotty as a preschooler with allergies. If you don’t own vines or haven’t bought your way in with real estate or planted yourself in the wealthy merchant class, you really don’t count for much. Just come buy our wines, over-priced French provincial/Italianate home décor, quichey little boutique clothes and get the hell out.

Trouble is, there’s only one road in, Highway 29, and one road out. Limos and Hummers crammed the road from Yountville to Calistoga until finally, the tourists started spilling over into the Sonoma Valley, otherwise known as the Valley of the Moon, and decided to settle there, imploding the town with yet more development and sucking up the water table with more vanity vineyards. And the one road in and out of the Valley, Highway 12, became another Highway 29. What once took 10 minutes to go from the outreaches of Sonoma to my home, now took 25 minutes. This was getting to be a no-brainer.

“What about all the racists? You’re going to go postal the first time you hear someone use the N-word and really mean it.”

“Like I’ve never heard it here? You don’t have to use the word here to be a racist. Look around. How many blacks and Asians live here in Sonoma? About 13, all told. We have whites and we have Hispanics and ninety percent of the Hispanics work the fields and if they didn’t, you think this economy would survive selling jewelry and French linens? Get me the f@*# out of here.”

This politically correct hypocrisy was every bit as offensive to me as the N-word.

Did I really live here? Was this all in my head? Some fragmented delusion, saturated by fine wines and creamy pate? Why didn’t I see this coming? When I ran screaming out of Silicon Valley to what I thought was the Promised Land, I was not prepared for the hoards behind me. I was running to something, not away. For a while, I thought I’d found it. And I did. I lived the life. I bought the French linens, festooned my house with grapevines and olive branches. I planted lavender and made sachets and bouquets for my friends. I fought the fight to keep the casinos out of the cow pastures. I shopped at the organic farmers’ markets and drank fine pinot noir in the plaza watering holes.

But when my house tripled in value in just six years, and the 817 square-foot shacks down on the highway in Boyes Springs started selling for over $300,000, it all came clear. California had lost its way.

The solution was simple: Sell the house, pack up bag, baggage and beagle and leave this to people who could deal with it. I was no longer one of them.

It was hard to release all that delighted me about my birthplace. As I drove the highways to Santa Monica to pick up my daughter for the trip, I tried not to react to the stunning coastlines or remember all the time I’d spent at the beach. I looked past the bougainvilleas that flood over the freeway sound walls. I let myself smell the fruit, sea-air, produce growing in the Central Valley, redwood trees, and flowers and plants that don’t grow anywhere else on the planet. They coalesce into one note that rings in the shape of my psyche, as if all notes on the scale are playing at the same time. I let myself have that one more time. It would never smell like this to me again.










Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner