Arkansas

Arkansas seems to sit on the margins, out of sight and out of mind for most of us. Oklahoma, its neighbor to the west, has the complex history of Indian Territory to ponder, while Tennessee to the east can can always fall back on music. Texas and Louisiana to the south are their own myths. Maybe Missouri is similar, but with both the St. Louis Cardinals and the Kansas City Royals, it seems like a different world. If Arkansas were part of a family, it would be the younger brother who never quite outgrew his own self-destruction. It’s the brother with the hip flask, jobless, who spent his last dollar on a half-wild horse and a half-broken pistol. He’s the brother who shows up for Thanksgiving already contrite, but never really sorry.

Over the Martin Luther King Holiday, we drove to Arkansas, to the Ozarks. It wasn’t a fishing trip. It could have been a fishing trip, the weather was ok, but it was planned so that when I wrote the report on our Arkansas fish, I wouldn’t have to say that we didn’t go to the Crystal Bridges Museum. We made it to Crystal Bridges, and for a short stop for lunch in Hot Springs, and then came home.

Arkansas is relatively poor (currently ranked 47th in household income, trailing Mississippi and West Virginia, but ahead of Louisiana and New Mexico), and now overwhelmingly Republican. Arkansas voted 62% for Trump in 2020, and all of the Biden counties were located in the Delta, or near enough.

Tyler Kutzbach, from Wikipedia.

The Arkansas population is still pretty binary. An Arkansan is probably black or white, and more likely white than black. As of the 2010 census, 77% of the roughly 3 million population was white, while 15% was black. That’s not a very true picture though. Chicot County in the Southeast Arkansas Delta has a white population of 4,733 and a black population of 5,861. A bit further north along the Mississippi, in Crittenden County–West Memphis–the white population is 21,763 and the black population is 23,789. Flip to our destination in the far northeast, Benton County, the white population is 227,609 and the black population is 4,359. Cut to the chase: Western Arkansas is white, the Delta isn’t. According to the online Encyclopedia of Arkansas, about 100 sundown towns (and three sundown counties) existed in Western Arkansas into the 70s.

No malaria, no mosquitoes, no Negroes. Siloam Springs is clearly quite the place.

The Delta black population is a slavery remnant, brought to Arkansas for cotton. If the definition of a functional economy is an economy that provides a decent living standard and opportunity for its participants, the Delta was always a dysfunctional economy, but after World War II, as agriculture converted from labor intense to mechanized, the Delta, both in Arkansas and across the river in Mississippi, brought dysfunction to high art. Most of Arkansas’s poorest counties are located along or near the Mississippi. Post-World War II, mechanization replaced much of agricultural labor, and in the Delta no new industries provided new sources of jobs. Until the Civil Rights Act, Delta planters controlled significant political power in the state, and it wasn’t in their interest to spend tax money on education or economic development–education and economic development would challenge control of labor. Since the 1920s the largest political question in Arkansas was, as often as not, not how to fund schools but how (and whether) to pay for road improvements.

About 70% of the population of Arkansas is Protestant, which includes a vast festering range of denominational and doctrinal disagreement. Only in such places do things like drinkin’ and dancin’ and playing the pipe organ in church still seem like the major philosophical questions of the age, and the principal query among decent folk is whether you’re Baptist, Methodist, or Church of Christ, or maybe even Evangelical (though that’s skirting the edge of decency).

The United States purchased Arkansas from France in 1803, as part of the Louisiana Purchase. As with most such New World land acquisitions, the indigenous Caddos, Osage, and Quapaws weren’t consulted. By 1836, there was sufficient American population–30,000 in 1830 and 97,000 in 1840 –to have achieved statehood. I had some ancestors there by 1836, a couple of pair of many greats grandfathers and grandmothers, but like a lot of Arkansans they don’t appear to have been particularly successful. One pater died young in 1850, and the other was in Texas by 1846. It is so common for white North Texans’ ancestors to have passed through Arkansas, that Ancestry recognizes a distinct DNA group, West Tennessee, Arkansas, and Northeast Texas Settlers. According to Ancestry, them’s my people.

Arkansas Territory, 1819, Arkansas Digital Archive

In the War, as part of the Union push to control the Mississippi, the Arkansas Confederacy was dealt with and survived only in the southwestern corner of the state, with the capital at Washington, 33 miles from Texarkana. In a later stage of the War, the Little Rock Nine were escorted into Central High in Little Rock in 1957.

Along with the Little Rock Nine being escorted into Central High, perhaps the most enduring image of Arkansas is the Arkansas Traveler/Lil’ Abner hillbilly. Lil’ Abner was not clearly from Arkansas, he hailed from Dogpatch, USA, but did anyone doubt that the Ozarks was his home? As for the Arkansas Traveler

Oh, once upon a time in Arkansas,
An old man sat in his little cabin door
And fiddled at a tune that he liked to hear,
A jolly old tune that he played by ear.

Edward Payson Washbourne, The Meeting Between the Traveler and the Squatter, 1856.

Hillbilly is not a flattering designation, combining squalor, meanness, poverty, and ignorance, though The Arkansas Traveller does allow the old man superior practicality along with tunefulness. “Neighbor, why don’t you fix that roof?” “I can’t fix it now ’cause it’s raining, and when it ain’t raining it don’t need fixing.” In the modern age you can toss in the assumptions of opioid addiction and meth.

In recent years, Arkansas points to three corporations as signs of economic change, Walmart, Tyson Foods, and J.B. Hunt Transport Services, all located in Northeast Arkansas. I can’t judge whether cheap goods, cheap chicken, and big rigs is the world on a platter for Arkansas, but it can’t hurt. I will say that Tyson produces the best commercial bacon, Wright Brand, and when I don’t cure my own it’s my go-to.

Tourism also plays a part in Arkansas’s economy, and Western Arkansas, up the Ouchitas to the Ozarks, is beautiful. All those bad things you can say about Arkansas? Western Arkansas is beautiful, truly, spectacularly beautiful.

Back to the new Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Our drive up the Ouchitas to the Ozarks wasn’t a fishing trip, exactly, though we did take rods, the weather was good, and we took a quick look at the White River. It was more of a pre-fishing trip, so that we wouldn’t have to say we’d never been to Crystal Bridges. The Museum collection is a good survey of important American art, but nothing in itself to drive 600 miles for. The real draw is the setting and the building, designed by Moshe Safdie. Together they’re magnificent. Crystal Bridges was founded by Alice Walton, Sam Walton’s daughter, in 2011, and there is a bit of a Medici feel to the enterprise. Here are some of the principal donors:

There’s something to be said for cheap goods, cheap chicken, and big rigs.

Happy New Year! Late! 2021.

2021 begins our fourth year of chasing fish around the country. What a difficult year the third year was.

The kitten we found bass fishing. She wasn’t bass fishing, we were, and she had been dumped on the roadside. Somebody doesn’t know what they lost.

At the start of 2020, we had a great steelhead trip to Washington State, right on the cusp of the Covid outbreak, right when the first US cases had been identified in, you guessed it, Washington State. I remember seeing a young Asian woman in a face mask in the Seattle airport and thinking, isn’t it a bit over the top wearing face masks? Is that some Asian thing? Who knew it would turn out to be not an ethnic question but an ethics question.

We had a couple of trips to Kansas, one early in the year when it was freezing, and one late in the year when it was freezing. I think next time we’ll go to Kansas in the spring, when the tornadoes blow in. As I a child of the Plains I always loved going to the storm cellar when the storm siren blew. All the neighbors would come over and sit around in the semi-dark, in the dank crypt-like smell of the underground. There were almost certainly spiders. It was a fine old time.

We nymphed in Tennessee, and we nymphed in North Carolina, and we caught some redfish on the Texas Coast and some bass in local ponds. That was all good, but with Washington it only meant three new states, plus we still have to return to Kansas. We’re never going to finish at this rate. We’ll have to fish in the State of D.C. if we don’t hurry.

2020 had a pandemic, and also George Floyd’s death in Minneapolis. Someone asked me during the Floyd fallout if I thought there was institutional racism. I said yes, but thinking about it later I’m not sure it’s the right question. We share some pretty tragic civic history, from slavery to voter suppression to Jim Crow, and it seems to me the question is whether we can conclude that George Floyd’s death isn’t a continuation of that history. I suspect that if I were black my response would be yep, just more of the same old, this time from the Minneapolis police.

Personally in November and December I went through two months of radiation for prostate cancer, old man cancer, and the radiation left me randomly falling asleep, then I would sleep some more, and then sleep some more. The doctor told me to think of it as a day at the beach. Since I had to go in most days, it was a pretty lousy couple of months for fishing, even surf fishing on the the beach. I hope the radiation worked, but in any event it didn’t leave any side effects, except that now every time I stand up I immediately need to go pee. It’s going to be a pain in waders.

This is not a flats boat.

There was an election, nothing new, with claims of voter fraud, nothing new, and a violent insurrection at the capital that left five people dead, which technically happened in 2021, not 2020, but it felt like 2020 and it was certainly something new. I just wish we still had Mark Twain. Mark Twain could explain this nonsense to us. This nonsense deserves Mark Twain.

As for me, it’s just not plausible that the Democrats could pull off massive fraud without somebody telling their buddy at work you should have seen what I did today! I cast a million votes for Joe Biden! Ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, Deep Throat in parking garages, the Pentagon Papers, that whole raft of Donald Trump ex-advisor porn, Chelsea Manning, J.K. Rowling’s lawyer, Mike Fiers . . . The only reason the Qanon drivel gets traction is because it’s supposedly being leaked by an insider who can’t keep his mouth shut. At least that part , somebody not keeping their mouth shut, is believable. If there had been a massive conspiracy to falsify millions of votes, some conspirator would certainly have said something to somebody who would need to tell the rest of us, and Rudy Guiliani doesn’t count. Somebody is going to blab. Hell, I’ve just told you about my glow-in-the-dark prostate, which is really none of your business, and even worse, an imposition by me on you. I didn’t cast a million votes for Joe Biden, but if I had, you’d almost certainly know by now.

Kris on the Guadalupe

What’s worse, it’s the sort of thing one shouldn’t claim blithely, without hard evidence, and no, that bogus statistical study that concludes if the vote had been the same in 2020 as it was in 2016, Biden couldn’t have won. True enough, but stupid. That’s why the game’s played on the field. Claiming conspiracies without evidence, Sidney Powelling it, will likely get you sued, and worse, it’s a direct attack on democracy, and pretty sketchy under the Ninth Commandment as well. It’s why except for Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton none of the lawyers would go into court and say there was fraud; for a lawyer, lying to a court has consequences.

There are always irregularities in elections, elections are hard to run and unless you can show that the irregularities affect the outcome, it’s just noise. There may have been some noise in 2020, but there was no massive fraud. It would have shown up in court if there had been.

Meantime Happy New Year. We’ll all go fishing in 2021! We’re scheduled to go to Pennsylvania in May, and I think we’re going. Hopefully by then we’ll be vaccinated. We may drive to Arkansas tomorrow, and as long as there are plenty of places to pee on the route, that should be just fine.

This is a flats boat.

Fish in the Time of Cholera. Arkansas.

The largest trout I’ve caught was in Arkansas, in the Ozarks on the Little Red River in the northwest part of the state, on a root-beer colored streamer called a meat whistle. Whoever named that fly wasn’t subtle, but neither is the fly.

I caught that trout three years ago, and I considered including it in our list and skipping another trip to Arkansas. For some reason that seemed wrong–if I included Arkansas where would it end? North Carolina 20 years back? That trip to Wyoming 30 years’ ago? So a month ago we booked a weekend trip back to the Little Red on April 4. Then came Coronavirus.

The Little Red is a tributary to the more-famous White River, and like the White it’s known for its trout. It once held the world all-tackle record for brown trout, over 40 pounds. Since the 1980s, the browns are always wild, never stocked. It’s a pretty river, to my eye prettier than the White, and we fished it from a flat-bottomed, jet-motored sled-boat Nothing says Arkansas like a flat-bottomed, jet-motored sled-boat.

Parts of the Little Red are lined with vacation homes, but its banks are heavily wooded and the houses don’t intrude except when your fly gets hung on a dock. There’s always something for flies to get hung on. The Little Red and the White are tailwaters, and while trout aren’t native to Arkansas, water is discharged from the dams at 40-50 degrees, cold enough to dissuade the native black bass and catfish. Trout thrive.

My great-grandfather, Henry Louis Thomas, was born July 17, 1850, in Ozan, Arkansas, two counties northwest of the corner where Texas and Arkansas meet. His father, William Louis Thomas, was born I-don’t-know-where and died in Ozan in 1849. He was 38. Because of problems with a stepfather, as boys Henry and his older brother, James Jasper, left Arkansas on a donkey and came to Bowie County near Texarkana. It seems pretty desperate, but I suspect these were pretty desperate people.

All William Louis left behind was a marriage license, a denied dram shop license application, and two sons. I doubt that my great grandfather Henry could read, or at least that he could read much, and wonder what it must have been like for Amanda Adeline to be widowed and poor and pregnant in Arkansas in 1850. She was born in 1834, two years before statehood, in Argenta, Arkansas, now North Little Rock. She was 16 when Henry was born. She died in 1864 in Bois d’Arc. She was 30.

Bois d’Arc, by the way, is pronounced bow dark.

When I was a boy, my grandmother’s house was a few blocks south, the Texas side, of State Line Boulevard in Texarkana. The Texas side was dry, meaning that alcohol sales were banned. The Arkansas side was wet, evidencing a wildness that I suspected was typical of the other side of the street. The federal post office sits on the line, part in Texas, part in Arkansas. Near the post office is a peculiarly elaborate Confederate memorial dedicated in part to the women of the Confederacy, or at least the white women of the Confederacy.

“O great Confederate mothers, we would paint your names on monuments, that men may read them as the years go by and tribute pay to you, who bore and nurtured hero-sons and gave them solace on that darkest day, when they came home, with broken swords and guns!”

I don’t think there’s a corresponding monument for Southern women who weren’t Confederate mothers.

I doubt my family history is uncommon. I expect that lots of early immigrants to Texas came through Arkansas: white, black, or brown they could only have come through Arkansas, Louisiana, Mexico, or the Gulf. Maybe there were a rare few souls from New Mexico. My family history is probably only nuanced by the time some of my ancestors actually stayed in Arkansas.

Henry Schenck Tanner, Arkansas, A New Universal Atlas Containing Maps of the various Empires, Kingdoms, States and Republics Of The World, 1836.

Since Thursday I’m home, self-isolating. A colleague in Dallas may have the virus, and there is a feeling of inevitability about the spread of Covid-19. Fifteen days ago I went to a breakfast for the Harris County Community College system with about 500 others, and after the breakfast I stood in the foyer for an hour discussing local politics with a friend, the wife of a Harris County commissioner, and greeted passers-by. That evening I stood with our mayor in a crowded room for a reception for Cory Booker, and then left for a dinner at a Chinese restaurant with about half of the Harris County state representatives–the purpose was to advertise the plight of Asian Town restaurants. At all those events we were still shaking hands, hugging, standing closer than six feet.

Now of course our mayor has ordered all Houston dining room service closed, and I’m at home. Everything’s canceled. Everything’s ground to a halt.

I haven’t canceled our trip to Arkansas yet, and haven’t discussed canceling with Kris. I should go ahead and cancel, I’m pretty sure we won’t be going, but part of me wants to stock the van with groceries and sleeping bags and drive, to see deserted highways, to make Henry’s trip on that donkey in reverse. We wouldn’t have to interact with anyone except the fishing guide, and that would be outdoors. We could sleep in the van in WalMart parking lots, right? There are WalMarts in Arkansas, right? It would be a small rebellion against our current paralysis. At some point life must go on, or maybe not.

I need to spend a day outside. And I’ve only been home since Thursday.