YONDER MOUNTAIN

Conditions were perfect for my first foray into the autumnal splendor of the Ozarks. Just a quick trip up Highway 7 to leaf-peep and back in time for Tux ‘N Trees—the black-tie event that officially heralds in the holiday season in Little Rock. My friend Dawne, owner of a popular formal wear boutique, found me the perfect gown and with the help of her magician seamstress, Maria, deftly fit it to me with the precision of a civil engineer. Ah, it was to be a fine day and an elegant evening in the Old South with my good friend, Susan and a host of good ole girls.

With Simon, my beagle, napping serenely in the back seat, I headed up I-40. The trip between Maumelle and Conway, while never truly inspiring, on this fine morning filled me with a muted joy. The sun came up and lifted the eeriness out of Lake Conway and all those trees that stick up out of the water. This is an alien sight to me. Trees just don’t do that in California. They grow on land, not in water. And the sight of them always invokes visions of evil water moccasins and one-eyed Cajun conjurers who bury chicken feet under willow trees on the night of the quarter moon. But on this morning, it was a grand sight and I was delighted to see it with new eyes.

Finally past Ruby Tuesday, McDonald’s, and countless box stores, I veered north onto Highway 7. It’s one of those highways that suddenly turn windy and narrow and you really do have to pay attention. Locals take some of those curves as if Jesus Himself were behind the wheel. It’s also dotted with one-mule towns with funny (to a Californian, anyway) names like Booger Hollow. I could hardly wait. They’d never believe this in California. I felt smug being privy to such a sacred place. They’d be amused but jealous. We would stop in Booger Hollow and I’d get out and have coffee and bacon with the locals. I’d put honey and lots of butter on my biscuits and pray that I’d still be able to fit in my ball gown. Maybe I’d buy jars of homemade pumpkin butter and fig spread.

The trees and colors stupefied me, though they had probably peaked the week before but still, they rivaled New England where I’d once spent a week traveling alone with a busload of characters that would require a whole book in itself to describe. Bright golds and burning reds. Ash, burning bush, sugar maple, birch and other trees I didn’t know what they were, saturated me with delight and gratitude---gratitude that I made this amazing leap of faith into a land of people and places as foreign to me as Qatar, and yet, familiar in that sense Americans have of belonging to their land, wherever that might be. It felt like I was in the heart of it all, among simple folk with profound wisdom. People who knew how to live with and apart from their neighbors. People who had no compunctions about putting their washing machines on their front porches or keeping their Christmas lights up all year. Finally, I saw a sign that read, “Booger Hollow – ¼ Mile.” Ah, the Promised Land. It had been a long time since the last bathroom stop so my eagerness to reach my destination was more than a longing for biscuits and bacon.

Booger Hollow was everything and more than my imagination could hold. Except for one thing: It was shut down years ago and was in a state of such disrepair as to scare the bejesus out of the most intrepid traveler. Deserted. The General Store was everything it was supposed to be. Peeling red paint and a sign that dangled precariously over the slanted porch. Spider webs covered the windows and rusty buckets rolled noisily along the sagging porch, propelled by God-knows-what because there was no wind. Talk about the willie-nillies. To the left, about 300 paces, was an outhouse with a huge sign that made no bones about it being an outhouse. And there were warning signs about it being condemned and warning signs about it before it was condemned. But my physiological imperative gave me no choice. I just plain had to go.

Trouble was, the stairs and porch and boards supporting the “commode,” if you will, were rotted and full of holes. I dared not think of what lay beneath. And I didn’t want my little dog falling in one of them so I picked him up, tucked him under my arm, made my way up the stairs, and prayed to SweetBabyJesus the whole way to keep us safe. Imagine trying to maneuver the steps of relieving oneself in a deathtrap outhouse with a beagle under your arm and you will never complain about anything, not ever again. We made a careful escape and again, I was filled with gratitude, this time for just plain having survived the ordeal. Filled with the Holy Spirit and upward prayers to the Blessed Virgin, I was stunned to hear gunshots in the woods behind me. Guns? Jesus, Joseph and Mary! I’ve gone and stumbled into some moonshine pit and there’s a hoard of hillbillies, all cousins, in overalls with no teeth and guns heading my way. I ran for the car, dog still under my arm and feeling as if it had gained 50 pounds in three minutes, I hurled both of us into the car and sped away in true Southern fashion: unbelted and leaving a cloud of dust in my wake as my tires whirled gravel into the mist behind me. No biscuits, honey, bacon and local color for me. Just get me the hell out of here.

It was about five miles up the road before my heart stopped doing push-ups in my chest. To my left was a rest stop overlooking a huge valley of trees and pastures. Time to stop again and just take it all in. Didn’t think there’d be much chance of guns gone awry up here. And besides, there was a Department of Forestry heavy equipment driver taking a break in his tractor or whatever it was. Feeling safe, we wandered along the path and beheld Arkansas. Back in the car again, I thought I’d just drive a few miles up the road before heading back to get ready for the gala. I stopped at the sign to let a van turn into the stop. Just then, I saw Fate unfold itself in the form of a battered, 1979 blue Ford pickup truck with an illegal trailer full of firewood careen around the bend at full throttle. There was no way he would be able to stop in time to prevent a massive rear-end collision with the van. Being a man of action, he swerved to avoid the van, glanced off the rear driver’s side and slammed into the right front side of my bumper. Paralyzed at the knowledge that I was about to meet up with good ole Baby Jesus, I sat in suspended animation as my car was hit and spun around 90 degrees in the opposite direction.

Pitched out of my autumnal reverie, I was rapidly heading for the cliff instead of the highway. The sound of my front bumper being torn off was nothing compared to the sound of my dog slamming against the interior back door. I watched stupidly as the driver tried to correct the trajectory of his errant pickup which by now was swerving across both lanes and heading for a ditch on the other side of the road, the trailer wagging back and forth like a hound’s tail on a scent.

There was a moment when everything stopped dead as the shock set in. Exploding from the truck came Jacky Joe McFessel, his wife and her sister-in-law from another marriage. By the time they reached my car, I was out on the pavement, checking on Simon. No bodily damage to either of us. Mercifully, no damage to anyone. The van’s occupants slowly emerged--- a trio of professors from Seoul, who, like me, were out for a lovely weekend drive.

“M’am? You okay? Oh Lordy! I am so sorry. Oh Lordy! Are you sure you okay? How about that little dog there? He okay? Oh, praise Jesus, oh thank you Jesus for sparin’ the lives of these folks and me too and my wife and Judy Lou. Oh look what I done to your car. Please forgive me. I got insurance and they’ll take right good care of ya. You can count on it. I’m Jacky Joe McFessel and this here’s my wife, Greta, and this is Judy Lou her sister-in-law from her other husband.”

The professors joined in the introductions and in their perfect Oxford English accents, confirmed that they, too, were uninjured. The Forestry driver, quickly assessed that there were no injuries and got on the phone to the state troopers. Help was on the way. When I reached in my bag for my cell phone, I noticed that Susan had called at precisely the same time as the accident. Woooooo. Eeeeerie. I was able to reach her in spite of communications not being all that great up on yonder mountain. She said she’d be right there. I said no. I don’t even know where I am and trying to tell you is impossible. She argued that I shouldn’t be stuck up on some mountain with a squashed car, a nervous beagle, and a bunch of strangers. I assured her that they were all fine folk, sorry as hell for troubling me and ruining my day, but fine folk nonetheless. If I had let her, she would have come. Tux ‘N Trees notwithstanding. What’s another gala when you’ve got a friend stuck in a ditch. And when you’re sitting on a stone wall, five miles north of a place called Booger Hollow, with Chinese professors, good country souls, and forestry workers, the differences don’t seem all that great. You’re all in it together, sitting in the same sunshine, basking in the same miracle that kept us all from being road kill.

The wait for the troopers and the tow truck would have been interminable had it not been for the kindness and concern of the McFessel family. Why, they told me their whole life stories, including the part about the brother who had kidney transplant, praise Jesus, following his last car accident. The professors stayed pretty much to themselves, musing on the nature of accidents, of which there are none, not really. Well, Jacky Joe, Greta and Judy Lou wanted to know what I was doing for Thanksgiving and said they’d be right proud if I joined them, if I had a mind to. Fascinated by my peculiar accent, they were delighted to learn I was from California and wanted to know how many movie stars I knew. I lied. A lot. I told them all about Brad Pitt and Elizabeth Taylor who doesn’t get out much these days. The state troopers and the tow truck drivers showed up just in time to prevent me from getting in any deeper.

The tow truck driver hitched up my car and helped me into the cab, gently placing Simon in my lap. The trip down the mountain to Russellville was what one would expect, save for the beagle fur flying all over the cab and being asked if I were married or what. All the rental car agencies were closed. But through a friend of a friend, the driver found a lady who was willing to come into the dealership where she worked on her day off to set me up with a car. This is Arkansas. This is what I came here for. I came here to find out who my friends are. And down here, there’s one ‘round every bend.


Copyright 2008 by Judith Gardner