Our niece’s wedding is tomorrow so today we took advantage of the free time and a loaner car to drive around. The destination was the birthplace of George Washington Carver that is a designated National Park Service site. It was about an hour away and the destination was worth that much travel time. But no one should build a vacation around this place. What struck me was the landscape on Highway 71 between Arkansas. Even though it was a sunny day, it is January and so the landscape is very stark. In the bright sunlight and leisurely pace I came to recognize what is so distinctive and so ugly about the countryside. The dominant shade is dun or umber and the sound of these colors’ names parallels the visual excitement of the territory.
There was nothing distinctive or eye-catching. Instead it’s the overall effect that is not only dull but downright depressing. At some point in my youth our family acquired a deer hide. I can’t remember how it arrived but my sense even then was that it was a castoff substandard effort of a novice. Perhaps my father. The hide was a little stiff and would not lay completely flat. The hair was not as soft as I had imagined. The color was a hard to describe combination of tan and brown and off-white. There were patches where the hair had fallen out, either in the tanning process or because of pre-death hair loss. And the edges of the hide were rough and ragged. It wasn't a pelt you would wrap around yourself -- it was something you'd throw on a sibling to hear them shriek in horror.
I suppose we might imagine that a wintry prairie would be a gently rolling tan version of green wheat fields. Similarly, a deer hide should be as seductively soft as a kitten’s tummy. But for me, neither is the case. Instead, the rock pressing through the turf lacks the robustness of granite. Instead, the limestone is rusty and crumbly. The effect is geologic mange. The trees are not at all pretty. The branches are gnarled and arthritic, the twigs stubby like the fingers of someone who should have worn gloves when they worked in the garden. There are occasional stands of cedar but their evergreen-ness is closer to dried blood. The landscape may be lush and verdant in the summer; since I only seem to visit for Christmas, I don’t recall seeing the area in that condition. Instead, it’s equivalent to chapped lips, torn cuticles, flaking sunburn, scraped elbows, rusting equipment, or de-layered plywood. It’s harsh and it’s sad. Unlike a town that had a past golden age, I’m not convinced the area was ever a place of joy or hope. It’s grim and disheartening. The only relief is the small town with the glimmering signs for WalMart and Sonic Drive-Ins. But even the tater tots seem underdone and make me long for golden times.
There was nothing distinctive or eye-catching. Instead it’s the overall effect that is not only dull but downright depressing. At some point in my youth our family acquired a deer hide. I can’t remember how it arrived but my sense even then was that it was a castoff substandard effort of a novice. Perhaps my father. The hide was a little stiff and would not lay completely flat. The hair was not as soft as I had imagined. The color was a hard to describe combination of tan and brown and off-white. There were patches where the hair had fallen out, either in the tanning process or because of pre-death hair loss. And the edges of the hide were rough and ragged. It wasn't a pelt you would wrap around yourself -- it was something you'd throw on a sibling to hear them shriek in horror.
I suppose we might imagine that a wintry prairie would be a gently rolling tan version of green wheat fields. Similarly, a deer hide should be as seductively soft as a kitten’s tummy. But for me, neither is the case. Instead, the rock pressing through the turf lacks the robustness of granite. Instead, the limestone is rusty and crumbly. The effect is geologic mange. The trees are not at all pretty. The branches are gnarled and arthritic, the twigs stubby like the fingers of someone who should have worn gloves when they worked in the garden. There are occasional stands of cedar but their evergreen-ness is closer to dried blood. The landscape may be lush and verdant in the summer; since I only seem to visit for Christmas, I don’t recall seeing the area in that condition. Instead, it’s equivalent to chapped lips, torn cuticles, flaking sunburn, scraped elbows, rusting equipment, or de-layered plywood. It’s harsh and it’s sad. Unlike a town that had a past golden age, I’m not convinced the area was ever a place of joy or hope. It’s grim and disheartening. The only relief is the small town with the glimmering signs for WalMart and Sonic Drive-Ins. But even the tater tots seem underdone and make me long for golden times.
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