Welcome to Arkansas

If you’re going to drive in rural Arkansas, you must gamble with your own life.

Namely, because the Ozark mountains are home to dangerously twisting highways, with abrupt hairpin turns occuring every four to six inches. If you drive too fast you will have a collision and die. If you drive too slow you will die of old age.

I see frequent skidmarks on the pavement which lead directly into mangled guardrails. I see bits of wreckage on the roadway, which is a sobering reminder not to shop on Amazon while I drive.

There is a heavy, heavy fog obscuring the highway, clinging to the Ozarks like a wet dishrag. You’re almost totally blind in this dense, impenetrable wall of gray. It’s a wonder anyone survives backing out of their own driveways.

“We’re used to dangerous road conditions,” says my waitress at a local cafe. “I can drive these roads with my knees while nursing my youngest.”

There is a table of old men beside me, wearing seed caps, nursing coffees.

One old guy asks where I’m from. I am a suspicious foreigner in a cafe tucked in the hinterlands of The Natural State. Everyone is staring at me.

“I’m from Birmingham,” I say.

The old guys nod at each other as though I have just informed them I am with the IRS.

“What brings you here?” one guy asks.

“I’m a banjo player,” I say.

I have immediately won their favor. Their guards drop. They are now smiling, aware that I have—at some point in my life—lived in a trailer park. I am smiling back at them. We are all grinning. Among us there are maybe nine teeth.

Soon I am driving through the Ozarks. Windows down. Sun peeking through the fog. The sky is ultramarine. The mountains are perfect.

The billboard signs along my route are uniquely entertaining as only Arkansas billboards can be.

“YOUR WIFE IS SUPER HOT!” one billboard headline reads, the sub-headline says: “SO GET YOUR A/C REPAIRED TODAY!”

There are also the obligatory country church signs. Many of which lack hyphens, commas, and other unimportant grammatical devices.

“Applications now being accepted for 2-yr-old nursery workers.”

“Lydia and Jason request your presents at their wedding.”

And, perhaps, my favorite church sign of all time, located somewhere outside Conway—“Hunting season is coming! We love hunting people!”

I stop at a rundown gas station, somewhere in the backwaters. There is a young woman behind the register, scrolling TikTok, who informs me they don’t take credit cards.

“Card reader’s down,” she explains.

I get the feeling it’s been down since Gunsmoke was on the air. But my heart is immediately warmed because I miss paying with cash.

Yes, I realize that a cashless society is the wave of the global future. And I’m not afraid of such things, I’ve been living a cashless lifestyle ever since I took up the banjo. But I do miss the jingling in my pockets. I miss cashiers who could count change without moving their lips.

Also available at the little gas station is food. A hot bar with collards, cheese grits, pork shoulder, and various deep fried things.

There is also an old-school pie cooler containing giant pies.

“What kind of pies are those?” I ask.

The cashier doesn’t look up from her phone. “Those are possum pies.”

“Possum pies?”

“My mom and me make them.”

“Are they good?”

She puts down her phone. “You want a slice?”

“How much?”

She crosses her arms and gives me a smile. “How much you got?”

When you visit Arkansas, as I say, you’ve got to take a gamble.