I wanted to take a moment to remember Ronnie Word's dad, Herman. Mr. Word gave my brother and me a summer job - our first job, in fact. Together with Ronnie Word, his sisters, my brother and several others, we all learned to appreciate the hard (but often fun) work of picking tomatoes from the Word family tomato farm.
Mr. Word was a quiet man (unlike his rowdy son) and soft spoken. But, when he spoke, we listened. And, as I recall, with Ronnie Word as our "mentor," Mr. Word "spoke" quite often as he tried in vain to keep his son's buddies focused more on picking tomatoes and less on throwing them!
At any rate, we earned spending money from Mr. Word during the summers of the '70s. More than that, we learned lessons of hard work and the benefit of learning to complete a task correctly. You just can't place value on those kinds of things. I'm sure Herman Word could have used better help than what the two Tillman boys provided, but I never heard him criticize. He corrected us, but was always generous. He'll be missed. Thanks, Herman, for giving me a chance and for teaching me things that I remember still.
-Ken
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Life at the End of a Long Dirt Road
It was a chilly, work-day Monday morning when I noticed it. There it was: the time-honored and oh-so clichéd “wash me” fingered into the rear window of a muddy Bronco that I followed too closely. I chuckled as I wondered how many generations had traced that worn-out expression onto unsuspecting vehicles. When had the first car been inscribed with that old phrase? Did Henry Ford leave the factory one day only to find “wash me” scribbled on the side of his dusty Model-A?
It took me back, however, seeing that adolescent prank once again on a dirty window. Truth told, I hadn’t noticed it much on cars around Little Rock. I suppose that’s because the raw material for that kind of graphic art just isn’t as readily available as is was when we were in school at Rison. In 1975, it wasn’t hard to find a gravel or dirt road in Cleveland County. In fact, I’m sure they’re still much more accessible than in today's asphalt-laden Little Rock, but not quite as widely available as they were 34 years ago.
When we were in school, Hwy 133 to Trucksville transitioned from pavement to gravel as soon as you reached Lisa Garner’s house and remained that way nearly to Pine Bluff. At some point past the county line, the road changed back to “pavement,” generously speaking. (Better said, the road became a more or less poor-man’s version of pavement: bumpy, dippy and seriously lacking in any pavement markings. On rainy nights with reduced visibility, the lack of a centerline became much more noticeable). Mt. Elba, too, was only paved as far as Sheriff Joe Paul King’s house, if that far. I’m not sure where it became the traditional red-clay gravel, but I know it was before you reached Ronnie Word’s house. I know that because I still have vivid memories of Ronnie’s blue Dodge truck trimmed in Cleveland County’s red gravel dust – usually encrusted with some muddy clay to boot.
We did enjoy paved roads from Rison-proper to Herbine and beyond, because that road was state highway 35. But, if you left the highway anywhere along the route, you’d quickly find gravel. And Hwy 35 in the other direction, to the “Y” community and Staves, was paved as well. That was convenient too, because the few miles of pavement between the graveled river access roads and town gave all of us a chance to blow the gravel dust from Mom and Dad’s family car in hopes that our parents would never know that we’d been hanging out at Saline River. (That trick rarely worked, however).
I’m convinced that our classmates that traveled these gravel roads during daily commutes to school were better that average drivers. It took special talent to manage these roads (at least with any demonstrable skill) – a level that I never really perfected. Ronnie Word, Jack Greenway, Mark Trucks, Mickey Coats, Phil Green, David Urquehart, Alvin Blackwell, L.B. Johnikin and so many others mastered this special skill at a young age. They used to think nothing of driving at highway speeds over sometimes bumpy, always questionable stretches of rutted gravel byways. Those that traveled these roads must have had the genetic makings of dirt-track drivers. They always knew the correct way to take the turns. These gravel-dwellers could slide around the turns without blinking, sometimes one-handed, and usually fiddling with something blasting from their 8-track stereos.
There was something oddly comforting and peaceful about traveling those gravel lanes late on weekend nights, with the Beaker Street DJs reminding us that it was already well past midnight. It seemed that the night air was cooler then and that air conditioning just wasn’t important. Maybe it was our young age. Maybe it was our hormones. Or perhaps it was simply that the red-clay roads were just cooler than asphalt and concrete. Regardless, I miss those moments. Maybe we should all just go for a drive in the country, dial our radios to some forlorn AM classic rock or Mo-Town tunes and pretend we’re 17 again.
Rock on,
Ken
It took me back, however, seeing that adolescent prank once again on a dirty window. Truth told, I hadn’t noticed it much on cars around Little Rock. I suppose that’s because the raw material for that kind of graphic art just isn’t as readily available as is was when we were in school at Rison. In 1975, it wasn’t hard to find a gravel or dirt road in Cleveland County. In fact, I’m sure they’re still much more accessible than in today's asphalt-laden Little Rock, but not quite as widely available as they were 34 years ago.
When we were in school, Hwy 133 to Trucksville transitioned from pavement to gravel as soon as you reached Lisa Garner’s house and remained that way nearly to Pine Bluff. At some point past the county line, the road changed back to “pavement,” generously speaking. (Better said, the road became a more or less poor-man’s version of pavement: bumpy, dippy and seriously lacking in any pavement markings. On rainy nights with reduced visibility, the lack of a centerline became much more noticeable). Mt. Elba, too, was only paved as far as Sheriff Joe Paul King’s house, if that far. I’m not sure where it became the traditional red-clay gravel, but I know it was before you reached Ronnie Word’s house. I know that because I still have vivid memories of Ronnie’s blue Dodge truck trimmed in Cleveland County’s red gravel dust – usually encrusted with some muddy clay to boot.
We did enjoy paved roads from Rison-proper to Herbine and beyond, because that road was state highway 35. But, if you left the highway anywhere along the route, you’d quickly find gravel. And Hwy 35 in the other direction, to the “Y” community and Staves, was paved as well. That was convenient too, because the few miles of pavement between the graveled river access roads and town gave all of us a chance to blow the gravel dust from Mom and Dad’s family car in hopes that our parents would never know that we’d been hanging out at Saline River. (That trick rarely worked, however).
I’m convinced that our classmates that traveled these gravel roads during daily commutes to school were better that average drivers. It took special talent to manage these roads (at least with any demonstrable skill) – a level that I never really perfected. Ronnie Word, Jack Greenway, Mark Trucks, Mickey Coats, Phil Green, David Urquehart, Alvin Blackwell, L.B. Johnikin and so many others mastered this special skill at a young age. They used to think nothing of driving at highway speeds over sometimes bumpy, always questionable stretches of rutted gravel byways. Those that traveled these roads must have had the genetic makings of dirt-track drivers. They always knew the correct way to take the turns. These gravel-dwellers could slide around the turns without blinking, sometimes one-handed, and usually fiddling with something blasting from their 8-track stereos.
There was something oddly comforting and peaceful about traveling those gravel lanes late on weekend nights, with the Beaker Street DJs reminding us that it was already well past midnight. It seemed that the night air was cooler then and that air conditioning just wasn’t important. Maybe it was our young age. Maybe it was our hormones. Or perhaps it was simply that the red-clay roads were just cooler than asphalt and concrete. Regardless, I miss those moments. Maybe we should all just go for a drive in the country, dial our radios to some forlorn AM classic rock or Mo-Town tunes and pretend we’re 17 again.
Rock on,
Ken
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