Map: Russellville, AK to Tuscumbia AL---349 miles
Wednesday, 3rd April 2013
We camped out at McDonald's in Russellville Wednesday morning because the wifi at Motel 6 was flatulent. The breakfast crowd was there, and the drive through line sometimes trailed out onto North Arkansas Avenue. Generally the folks were hereditary rails or environmental whales; they both seemed to eat about the same amount of food.
At one point a little girl came in with her big daddy---one of those precious little Southern girls that look like they fell out of a Victorian print, all dirty blonde curls and sallow complexion. She ran up to the faux pewter life-size statue of Ronald McDonald.
"Hi Ronald!" She would have climbed up into his arms if Big Daddy didn't stop her.
On their way out, she sounded the obligatory, slightly sad Good-bye, Ronald---and I thought, wasn't there a television commerical like that? But she was way too young to know that; to her, Ronald was simply the nice uncle who fed her.
We escaped McDonald's by some old residential streets.
"There's a lot of grape hyacinths in that lawn," my husband pointed out. "You better take a photo."
"Aw, there like plumb in front of their door," I said in Arkie speak. "That's like taking a picture of someone's underwear drawer. They'll be more out in the country."
There were none, ever again. My lament for the rest of the day and beyond was whar-yr's the Gee-Dee gra-ape high-an-this?!
We were motoring down old US 64, which featured an evacuation sign that my husband wanted me to photograph. I waited for a great juxaposition, but the signs ceased before that happened.
"They'll be a Google image of it," I soothed. But there is not. I liked the name: Nuclear One Evacuation Route---as if it was an escape from the Death Star, but I think he was most amused by a two lane road being an escape route.
The towns of Morrilton and Menifee were stereotypically moldy and forgotten Southern towns---especially on that dreary day. They might as well be a million miles off Interstate 40 instead of a mile or less. They're fascinating in their own way, like driving through a novel. Houses slump in on themselves out of pure exhaustion, trailers rot, junk radiates from either like an impact site. Next door might be a McMansion or some venerable Southern mansion.
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| Wild verbena---an excellent title for a bodice ripper. |
Soon after we whisked by a circa 1970 trailer peeking out from the underbrush---one would have had to machete their way inside. In front of it was a large patch of those golden narcissus. Cold from my previous hike, I didn't stop to photograph the glory in front of the grim.
Beebe hasn't much but the two-year State University of Arkansas at Beebe and a Super Wal-Mart in the making. It felt strange that the little downtown didn't have coffee houses and beer joints, especially since the school has been around since 1927 in one form or another. I guess the collegiates just hang out at the Sonic Drive-In.
Vintage US 67, now Arkansas 367, heads northeast and displays all the evidence of a once-busy highway---mile after mile marked with abandoned gas stations, diners and curios shops. It then dog legs into Searcy, a bustling city of jackrabbit drivers. At a traffic light, we rolled up beside a car with a pastor's license plate. He had a sign on his door that suggested a Biblical passage that for lack of an adverb or adjective made no sense. I wish I directed my husband to take picture on the sly so we could study it later for possible interpretation.
Old US 67 reaches its climax at Bald Knob, which of course produced a very gay giggle within the confines of Patsy. Bald Knob was once a big crossroads of old highways, and the whole place is devoted to those decrepit remains. Some cafes are open, most are closed. Motels are lived in by the month or open to the elements. Perpetual yard sales display items dank from the seasons. It was almost jar dropping in its squalor, which is probably why I didn't stop to take a picture. I didn't have the backbone to answer the question wot are ewe takin' a pitcher of? Not to say I didn't enjoy driving through Bald Knob---it's like a car wreck or some display of bad taste that you can't help but gawk at.
We headed east again on US 64, which had a constant westbound traffic of wide loads that caused trucks in front of us to slow to gauge a bridge crossing with the wide ones. It's a rather dull trip over the Mississippi floodplains squared for cotton and rice.
My husband required a pit stop at the crossroads of US 64/49. He reported on the restroom and the vending machines therein: "They sold Rough Riders and Tingle Rings."
"Did you buy me a Tingle Ring?"
"No---they cost seventy-five cents!"
"Humph! Now I'll never know what they do."
I dimly recall such machinery in the men's rooms when I was boy. They all seem to have retired to the Mason-Dixon Line, since I received a similar report from him in Tennessee several years ago.
We connected to Interstate 55 at Marion, where we went south and east over the Mississippi River to Memphis, Tennessee. The freeway is charmingly vintage---at least until downtown, where signs vaguely inform the motorist to keep right to stay on I-55. There were only two lanes to begin with, so I was surprised when we approached a cloverleaf and the two empty lanes went downtown, while all the traffic jammed onto a tiny southbound ramp. Naturally we ended up going downtown, but upon seeing no real traffic for a dozen blocks or more ahead I decided to forget the freeway and just drive through town.
Downtown Memphis has had a lot of revitalization and fashionable people walked the streets but there was surprisingly little traffic. There was an increase in traffic midtown, but hardly annoying or time consuming. At one point I got confused about which highway I was following, as there were four combined at one point: US 64/70/72 and 79. I wandered off through an elegant old neighborhood on 70 when I wanted 72, and it took me the Sam Cooper and Avron B. Fogelmann Expressways to get back onto track in the exclusive suburb of Germantown. Before the Interstate system, getting sidetracked like this was a common occurrence.
Traffic was fairly heavy in Germantown, but compared to a similar California exurb it moved both smoothly and at reasonable speed, instead of flying from one signal to another. Seen through the deciduous forest was subdivision after subdivision of huge brick homes sporting excessive gables.
US 72 enters Mississippi as a divided highway---one direction often being the undulating circa 1940 highway, while the other direction is the relatively flat modern road. It was raining now, and the high rolling terrain disappeared into the mist ahead.
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| Cherry blossoms on the town square, Corinth Mississippi. |
We were early for dinner, but the place started filling up as we waited for our meal. A huge elderly couple waddled in, she dragging an oxygen tank behind her. They sat next to us, and another waitress took their order, her capacious rumble seat dangerously near. A cordless phone rang slightly above this protuberance.
"I've got to put you on howld," she said. "I'm taking an order at a table."
That's how they handle takeout orders at Martha's, which appears to be almost half of her business.
Our food arrived promptly, which probably was a forewarning that it would be none too hot. Fortunately it was delicious, and eating lukewarm food somehow seems Southern. Only the squash was disappointing for sitting around too long. My chop was chicken fried perfectly, the broccoli sinfully creamy with cheese and white sauce, the creamed potatoes as perfectly bland as the name implies---a dash of pepper made them perfect. My husband's liver---the one on on his plate---was indeed smothered in a rich brown gravy, and although I hate liver I could tell it was very well prepared. Probably the best thing of all was his coleslaw, which was surprisingly leafy green and freshly flavored. The potato salad was Southern smooth and dotted with pimento. I suspected it was made over creamed potatoes---and why the hell not? It was the ultimate in comfort food. Our cornbread was actually corn cake, as in pancake, and novel in neither being gritty or sweet. Very good.
Mrs. Oxygen Tank had the Swedish meatballs and white beans, both tempting looking. The beans reminded me of a pale rendition of Fina's green chili back in Chama, New Mexico.
By the time we finished, the peach cobbler for a dollar was also swiped clean from the board---not that we had any room for it.
I suspect Martha's is piping hot at lunch, or perhaps it is best as take out---where a nuking in your motel room microwave finishes her food off nicely. With that in mind, Martha is indeed a delicious Southern Experience.
We planned to stay on down the road a piece in Iuka, but in spite of a fairly recent good recommendation on Google, no one was answering the phone at the Iuka Motel. Out of curiosity, we got off of divided US 72 and drove the much more interesting circa 1940 highway in and out of town. Although the Iuka Motel has yet to sink into decrepitude, it was obvious the few occupants were of the monthly variety. A black Hefty bag of garbage sat outside of one room's door.
So we had to drive an extra thirty miles to my husband's Priceline find, the Key West Inn---a name to tie it into this unbeknown to us Mississippi tourist destination. Never mind that Tuscumbia is about as Key West as Death Valley.
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